Nancy Roberts - Haunted Houses: Chilling Tales From 26 American Homes

NANCY ROBERTS (19242008) was the author of more than twenty books, most pertaining to the supernatural. She was named custodian of the twilight zone by Southern Living magazine and was often described as the First Lady of American Folklore. A journalist for many years, she worked for newspapers in New Jersey, Florida, and North Carolina. Her thorough research also won her the Certificate of Commendation from the American Association of State and Local History.

TARYN PLUMB has penned several books, including New England UFOs, Haunted Boston, Haunted Maine Lighthouses, and Maine Off the Beaten Path (10th edition). She has worked as a journalist for many years throughout the New England region, most notably for The Boston Globe, and lives in Portland, Maine. She is honored to have the opportunity to continue a volume by such a talented and prolific author as Nancy Roberts.

The legendary Hotel del Coronado near San Diego has a room said to be haunted.

Across from San Diego on a balmy beach by the blue Pacific is the Hotel del Coronado. It is a legendary place. The Prince of Wales (Edward VIII), Ronald Reagan, Richard Nixon, Lyndon B. Johnson, Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, Shirley MacLaine, and countless other celebrities have enjoyed its 1880s opulence.

Built when Wyatt Earp was keeping order in Tombstone, the palatial hotel is one of the last great seaside resorts. It has excellent food, a magnificent expanse of ocean, and a haunted room.

The hotel on Orange Avenue in Coronado resembles at first view a huge colony of many different-sized mushrooms, each capped with a pointed red Mediterranean roof. When I went to the desk and inquired about the haunted room, the assistant manager replied abruptly, We do not have such a thing. I nodded politely and asked to see the manager.

Well we do have a room that some people say is haunted, answered the manager reluctantly, but, of course, it isnt.

Would it be possible for me to see it anyway?

No, Im sorry it wouldnt.

That seemed a strange reply, so I went on to explain that I was collecting stories for a book of supernatural phenomena at famous places. Again, I asked to view the room and again, he refused.

Would you like to rent it? he asked.

What number is it?

Number 3502.

How odd that he immediately knew the number if it were not haunted. Something must have happened in this room, I thought. Well, what is the price?

It would be one hundred and five dollars.

That seemed reasonable enough for a haunted room, I thought. Would you kindly show it to me?

Im sorry maam, I cant do that, but if you wish to rent it for the night...

Thank you, I said. Ill think about it and let you know later, I had another approach in mind, but it could wait. It was time to try the Sunday luncheon buffet in the majestic Crown Room. An impressive display of delicacies graced the long tables, and I observed at least a dozen varieties of luscious-looking desserts. As I sampled the buffet, I admired the dark magnificence of the vaulted oak ceiling, contemplating all the famous people who had dined here. There was a sense of awe at being in the same room where Charles Lindbergh had been honored following his solo flight across the Atlantic in 1927. Here too the Prince of Wales had been feted, and, unfortunately for a man named Simpson, it was on that occasion that his wife, Wallis, met the prince.

But on with the ghost story quest. After brunch, questioning various employees of the hotel, I discovered that many had heard stories of the room being haunted and some believed them.

Through the years the girls identity and details of her background gradually came to light. The true story is not a happy one. It is about a wicked stepmother and a lovely young girl.

Kate Morgan was born in Dubuque, Iowa, three years after the close of the Civil War. Her father was a well-to-do farmer, and, when she was a child, he and her mother gave the golden-haired little Kate every advantage. She was in her early teens when her mother died and her father remarried. Despite the girls efforts to please her stepmother, Maggie, she was never able to do so, and as time went on, the girls life became increasingly miserable.

The lovely clothes her parents had given her were now tattered and outgrown, and anything Morgan did for his daughter made her stepmother madly jealous. Even his bringing her a bright ribbon from the store was an occasion for harsh words from his wife. It irritated Maggie that despite Kates faded calico dresses her beauty shone bright as a new Indian head penny.

In 1868 Dubuque showed some of the promise and much of the tawdry glitter of the city it would one day become. Rough bootclad cattlemen trod the muddy streets, their pockets full of money to squander, and saloons and gambling houses attracted all kinds of men.

Demure, well-dressed ladies flourished parasols shielding their delicate complexions from the rays of the blazing Midwest sun as they strolled along the wooden sidewalk in front of the stores. And then there were women whose hair boasted a brassy henna brilliance and who wore color on their lips as red as the blossoms of the trumpet vines that twined over unpainted shacks. Real ladies could spot that kind in a twinkling, Maggie Morgan always said, and with her sharp tongue was ever ready to point them out contemptuously.

Often while Maggie lay languidly in bed resting, Kate was sent through the flat Iowa countryside, bright with purple phlox and wild roses, on errands to the store. One July afternoon she had just come out of the Dubuque Supply Company, carrying her purchases when a cattleman grasped her arm.

Youre sure a pretty gal. I wanna buy you a drink, Bill Bailey said.

Kate pulled away and tried to pass him, but his big, calloused hand reached out, encircling her waist, and he spun her around to face him.

Please, let me go. I dont know you, sir.

Wal, you can git to know me mighty fast! With that, he jerked Kate toward him, and her bag full of groceries fell from her arms, its contents spilling all over the ground.

I seen you before, wearin them raggedy clothes. You need a purty dress, a gal like you. He thrust his bearded face close to Kates own. She screamed, and a knot of men began to gather around them. Kate strained to break free, and, as she did, her dress tore at the shoulder. She began to cry.

Now, see what you went and done, Bill said, leering at her. I tole you, you needed a purty dress, and Im going to take you to git it.

Youre not taking her anywhere, a hard-edged masculine voice spoke up from the crowd. Bill Bailey glared at the man the crowd parted to let pass. A tall, well-built fellow with bright blue eyes, curly black hair, and expensive clothes, it was obvious he was no cattleman.

Bailey released Kate and, fists raised, started for the stranger but stopped abruptly when the mans hand slid toward his pocket. That meant a pistol. Bailey turned away, melting into the little knot of onlookers. The stranger covered Kates bare shoulder by putting his jacket around her and began picking up the contents of her bag from the dirt of the main street.

I want to see you safely home, he said. What is your name, young lady?

Kate Morgan. And yours, sir?

Lou Garrou.

She rode behind him on his horse, and Garrou seemed in no hurry. He had gotten off a Mississippi riverboat that afternoon and was in town to enjoy himself. In answer to her question about his occupation, he said, Just a traveling businessman, and that he would be moving on in a day or so. He came back to see her that night and the following afternoon, much to everyones astonishment, he appeared at the Morgan farmhouse with a box of pretty clothes for Kate. Since he was still there at suppertime, they invited him to sit down and share their meal.