A simple ad announced an event called the "Ghost Trails." It was a fund raiser for a local theater group and involved listening to ghost stories at the city's oldest hotel. The popular rustic inn is a historic structure with a celebrated career of playing host to the rich and famous. Five stories of Spanish architecture include long corridors that are natural settings for spooky tales.
My wife and I arrived just after dark and headed for the booth to purchse our tickets. We were nagged by the sense of being watched, but did our best to ignore the feeling.
Our guide, a short, thin pasty faced girl of about 15 appeared and motioned for us to follow. Her black leotards seemed an appropriate garb for the haunting event.
Leading us down the Inn's dimly lit corridors, we made our first stop at the hotel's southern corner. Here, a tall man dressed in a black cape and stove pipe hat regailed us with the story of a bell hop who had died tragically in a fall down the inn's long winding staircase. He was so faithful a servant that even after his death guests reported receiving visits from him in response to their request for room service.
Afterwards, our journey continued around the outer walls before detouring down a hallway leading us through the courtyard adorned with rainbows of flower and lush vegetation. We passed the elegant dining room visible through the huge bay windows that overlooked the courtyard. Inside, patrons came to sup on the county's finest cuisine.
The hallway angled left and ended at an iron gate. Next to it, an old woman sat on a stool dressed in a black with a white apron and hat, her weathbeaten face etched with many lines.
She told of an old woman's ghost haunting the Inn's chapel. Workers remodeling the sanctuary often fled in terror because of the dread her specter's image produced.
I marveled at the speaker's intimate knowledge. She told the story like she was personally familiar with the ghost.
It was then that I glanced at our escort and saw a crack in her stoic expression. Her eyes reflected a definite fear.
After the woman finished, our guide led us through the iron gate and towards our next location. Along the way she stopped to whisper something to the one of the other guides.
My curiosity aroused. I returned to the iron gate. To my shock, the old woman had vanished.
Later, I watched the other tours. Mysteriously, the escorts now avoided the gated hallway.
I have been to the event in subsequent years. Not since the first time have they ever gone near the location.
While there have been many memorable tales on the Ghost Trails, the one told by that old woman gave a new meaning for me to the term, ghost story.
For the residents of Mauershire, England, a white Christmas with all its resurrected sentiments, also brings its share of disadvantages. It means long cold freezing nights, not to mention very few patrons to brave the harsh weather and buy goods in the town's shops that were already suffering from poor sales.
Fifteen year-old Annabelle Garth didn't let these concerns bother her. Christmas had always been a time for giving and this year was no exception. As she stood over the kitchen tablt putting the last of her baked goodies into her homemade pannier, her mom looked on with a certain degree of consternation on her face. A heavy snow storm raged outside the window of their modest home and it was no night to go outside, even if it was Christmas eve.
Staring anxiously out the window, she shook head and said, "I'm sorry Annabelle, but you better stay home."
"But mother, I must," Annabelle protested, her big brown eyes filled with such deep love for others. "I can't disappoint Mrs. Covington. She has been in dire need since her husband died two months ago. Always helping others and now she herself is sick. I can't bear the thought of her five kids waking up Christmas morning without something to look forward to. It just wouldn't be Christmas."
Annabelle's selfless compassion melted her mother's resolve. If not for other problems, she would go with her daughter. After all, they had so much to be thankful for. Her husband's government job kept them provided for in a town with a depressed economy. How could she deny her daughter's wish to share their good fortune? So she gave her daughter a big hug and told her to be extra careful.
The tapping on Mrs. Covington's door was barely heard over the howling of the wind. Struggling to her feet, she was so amazed to see Annabelle standing in the doorway on such a terrible storming night. Once inside, despite the cold, the gifts in Annabelle's basket still filled the air with intoxicating aroma of fresh baked bread and the scent of Jasmine.
Concerned over the weather, Mrs. Covington beg Annabelle to spend the night. But the girl with such a big heart refused. There were still several others she needed to visit before returning home. Mrs. Covington watched her disappeared into the flurries of whiteness and said a little prayer for the girl's safety.
The next day, the storm was gone. Mrs. Covington decided to visit the Garth's and thank them for Annabelle's kindness. A grief stricken Mrs. Garth met her at the door. Annabelle had been found in the street in the morning, frozen to death. She was still clutching the pannier she was going to give to Mrs. Covington.
A cold chill stabbed at Mrs. Covington's spine. Who had visited her last night? Was she really so sick that she imagined Annabelle's visit? Rushing home, she desperately searched for signs of the home made basket, but it was gone. All that remained was the smell of fresh baked bread and Jasmine.
The Garth family later gave away all of the rest of Annabelle's homemade panniers. But sooner or later they were returned. People claimed that at night there would be strange tappings at the door, followed by the lingering smell of baked bread and Jasmine.
For years, the panniers were kept in the Garth's attic. Eventually, they were sold at an estate sale. Some of them made there way to America where antic dealers sold them to collectors.
And so, if by chance someday you somehow receive one of these beautiful hand crafted
panniers as a gift and you hear a tapping on the door in the middle
of the night or awake in the morning to the unexpected aroma of fresh baked bread
or Jasmine. Just smile and say, "Hello, Annabelle."
