Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy (11 page)

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Authors: Jennifer Allison

BOOK: Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy
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Darla paused and turned away from a dark barracks where Spanish soldiers used to sleep. “Well,” she continued, taking a deep breath, “ignoring Tom made him angry. For a while, he acted more like a poltergeist than he ever had before—burning out lightbulbs, making dishes fall from the cupboard, stuff like that. Eventually, he stopped, and then, one day, I stopped seeing him altogether.
Maybe he just got tired and left,
I thought. What I hoped was that seeing ghosts had been kind of a childhood phase—something that I had outgrown for good.
“Then, one day—I think it was around this time of year—I was outside in the front yard by myself when something caught my eye. I looked up, and in one of Mama's crystal balls, I saw the reflection of a lady. She wore a long, white dress and was just walking through the yard. I remember having a strange feeling—kind of like a tingling through my entire body. And when I turned around, she was standing right there behind me.
“She was pretty in kind of an old-fashioned way, and she beckoned to me, like she wanted me to follow her. I knew she was a ghost, but I was curious, so I did follow her.”
Darla hesitated. She observed Debbie, who was pointing to some interesting Spanish graffiti that had been carved into the coquina-stone walls of the fort.
“What's wrong?” Gilda asked.
Darla flinched. “I'm not sure I should tell you the next part.”
“You
have
to tell me the next part. Why wouldn't you?”
“Because . . . she led me into Mr. Pook's house, where you're staying.”
Gilda shivered. “So tell me what happened next.”
“The woman dressed in white—she just walked right through the wall, straight into Mr. Pook's house. I hesitated, but then something made me follow her. I remember the door was open, but nobody was home. His house looked kind of spooky with all those antiques he keeps everywhere. . . . Of course, I knew it was all just furniture and stuff, but still. And then I heard a voice crying, like someone was in pain.”
Gilda remembered the mysterious cries for help she had heard in Mr. Pook's house. “Then what?”
“Then I saw something really weird. The woman in white had disappeared, but all around me, I saw skeletons. Some were whole, but others were just body parts: arm and leg bones, just lying around the room. Some of them were moving. Kind of
twitching
. I wanted to run, but it was like I was frozen. Finally, I turned and just ran out of the house as fast as I could. I never told anyone about it, but I told myself I would never go back inside that house. You couldn't pay me to go in there.”
Gilda had to agree that this was one of the strangest and scariest ghost encounters she had heard firsthand—and she had witnessed some pretty terrifying things. “What do you think it meant?” she asked, doing her best to maintain the objective attitude of an investigator as she and Darla followed the tour group back through the fort and up a steep walkway leading to the old cannons.
“I'm not sure, but one time I heard Mrs. Castle saying that some of the houses in our neighborhood were used as makeshift hospitals during the Civil War. She said the bullets back in the Civil War days shattered the entire bone if you got hit, so they ended up having to amputate a lot of arms and legs without any anesthesia. Who knows, maybe all that pain from soldiers left some kind of imprint on the house or something.”
“It's possible,” said Gilda. “We should do some more research so we can find out for sure. We should try to figure out who that woman in white is, too.”
“I'm not doing any research on ghosts. No way.”
“Why not?”
“I don't want to see ghosts anymore.”
“Fine, but it sounds like you're going to keep seeing ghosts whether you want to or not.”
“When I'm on the phone or listening to music I usually don't see them, and I just try to avoid looking around too much.”
“You could also get one of those plastic ghost-proof bubbles to live inside. We'll just send you your meals through a little flap and roll you down the sidewalk on wheels.”
Darla stared at Gilda, perplexed.
“I was joking!”
“Oh. Because it kind of sounded like a good idea.”
“Darla, you won't be able to avoid ghosts forever, especially living in this city. And the truth is, avoiding them is a waste of your talent. You just have to learn how to handle your gift.”
“I don't feel talented,” said Darla. “I feel weird.”
“But you
are
talented. In fact, you remind me a little bit of my mentor, Balthazar Frobenius. He started seeing ghosts and a lot of other things when he was just a kid, and he didn't want to at first either. But it turned out he couldn't ignore it; he finally realized he had to train himself to use his abilities in some positive way. He's had an amazing career.”
“I suppose you and Mama would be thrilled if I became a psychic or a ghost hunter or whatever, but that's not what I want. I just want to be a normal kid!”
Gilda felt frustrated
. I wonder if there's some way Darla and I could switch parents,
she thought
. I could start a bed-and-breakfast with Mary Louise and Darla could play video games with Stephen
. On the other hand, Gilda realized that switching parents would mean that Darla would have to stay at Eugene's house, and she'd be way too frightened to handle that.
I may not have Darla's natural talent for perceiving ghosts,
Gilda reflected,
but at least I'm brave enough to face them. What's the use of being talented if you're too scared to actually develop your gifts?
“Darla,” said Gilda, “you simply
aren't
a normal kid, and you're going to have to accept that.”
Darla stared out at the starlit sky and the black water of the Matanzas Bay. Tears welled in her eyes, and Gilda immediately regretted the statement. “Look, I didn't mean it like something
bad
. I just mean that you're special.”
“Look, I just want to go home,” Darla said with a sniff. “Please—don't talk to me about ghosts anymore, okay?”
Darla walked briskly away, leaving Gilda behind. Gilda started to chase after her, but then decided to let her walk ahead; she was clearly trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and the ghost-tour group.
18
Gilda's Ghost Tour
TO: WENDY CHOY
FROM: GILDA JOYCE
RE: St. Augustine ghost-hunting update
 
Dear Wendy:
One thing's for sure: Ghosts are drawn to St. Augustine like moths to a cashmere sweater in the back of an old lady's closet. They're everywhere. I've already had my first unexplained encounter at Mr. Pook's house (strange voice calling for help; source not yet identified). Not only that, the girl who lives next door has amazing psychic abilities. (Unfortunately, she's a bit of a wuss when it comes to actually facing real ghosts.)
 
NEWS FLASH:
MAJOR DISCOVERY ABOUT MR. EUGENE POOK !
I just discovered that a long time ago, Mr. Pook was engaged to a woman named Charlotte Furbo, who wisely left him for another man. Apparently, Eugene never got over Charlotte until he met my mom.
What can I say, Wendy? Life is very strange.
On a positive note, St. Augustine has not failed to provide a healthy dose of intrigue.
 
MYSTERIES IN PROGRESS:
 
What was the source of the cries for help I heard in Eugene Pook's house when Mom and I first arrived? Is the voice connected with Darla's story about seeing skeletons and severed limbs in this house? Is there some link with traumatic events that happened way back during the Civil War and who is the ghostly woman in white? What was she trying to tell Darla about Mr. Pook's house?
 
HOW CAN I HELP DARLA?
 
I feel bad for her; it can't be easy to be scared literally all the time. How can I convince Darla to get over her fears so she can help me do some ghost hunting? Yes, Wendy, there is a selfish motive here. At the same time, I really do want to help. So far, I helpfully told her that she's “not normal,” which resulted in tears. (NO INSULTS ABOUT MY LACK OF TACT, PLEASE.)
More to come: I need to pause to write my travelogue for Mrs. Rabido before she goes into withdrawal as a result of my absence from her class.
 
TO : MRS. RABIDO
FROM: GILDA JOYCE
RE: ST. AUGUSTINE TRAVELOGUE Entry #2
 
Dear Mrs. Rabido :
You might be interested to know that I'm writing to you from a haunted house. Now, you might think this isn't a big deal, since most of the houses in the old part of St. Augustine are at least a little bit haunted, but let me assure you, it is still quite scary.
Just so you can picture me: I'm sitting up in an old-fashioned bed complete with a feather-stuffed mattress and hand-sewn quilts. I'm trying not to look around the room too much, because the faces of about a hundred antique dolls look kind of freaky in the dim light. Listen ! The click, clack, clack of my typewriter is punctuated by bursts of thunder and flashes of lightning from outside. Indeed, Mrs. Rabido, here in St. Augustine it is literally “a dark and stormy night.”
If I'm lucky, both this homework submission and I will reach you in good health, allowing you to carefully print the letter A with a steady hand, using your lovely red pen. Let's keep our fingers crossed, Mrs. Rabido!
Since I know you love excitement, I've arranged a special treat for you tonight. Get ready, Mrs. Rabido: Strap yourself into your corset and bonnet, and grab a few extra batteries for your flashlight. We're heading out for GILDA'S GHOST TOUR OF YE OLDE CITY!
Our first stop--the lovely Huguenot Cemetery, which is filled with mossy, teetering tombstones. This cemetery “opened for business” in the year 1821 as a final resting place for “non-Catholics,” partly because there was nowhere else to bury all the people who died during an epidemic of yellow fever. What is yellow fever, you ask? Let's just say that if you got the yellow fever, you would have been lucky if you died right away. (Notice that this was the “lucky” outcome, Mrs. Rabido.)
If you were NOT lucky, you went into a coma. And all too often, that meant that you were hastily stuffed into a coffin and enthusiastically buried by the overzealous townsfolk, who might have overlooked one teeny, tiny detail.
OOPS! YOU WERE STILL ALIVE!!
“We know that A LOT of people were buried alive by accident,” Debbie Castle, a local ghost-tour guide and student archaeologist, cheerfully explained during tonight's ghost tour. “They've found the scratch marks on the insides of coffins when they are exhumed.”
But if you were rich, Mrs. Rabido, then you might be able to afford being buried a very special way. A string would be tied to your finger--a very long string that would also be attached to a little bell ABOVEGROUND at the other end. That way, if you just happened to have the nasty surprise of waking up to find yourself inside a coffin, you could let someone aboveground know about the terrible mistake before it was TOO LATE.
Of course, this service wouldn't come cheap, Mrs. Rabido, so don't go expecting anyone to do it for free. You had to pay someone to hang out near your tombstone around the clock--hopefully someone who would stay there without taking too many long bathroom breaks; someone who would remember to listen for that bell! And let's be frank--hopefully someone who received good grades from you in history class! Let us hope that you choose the right person, Mrs. Rabido, should you ever find yourself in such an unfortunate position.
 
 
GHOSTS OF THE OLD FORT:
Next, Mrs. Rabido (if you're still conscious and haven't passed out from fright), I will lead you down to the Castillo de San Marcos (also known as “The Old Fort”).
In the darkness, with only our flashlights and the moon shining down on the dark water of the bay, we can imagine a time back in the 1600s, when the Spanish soldiers paced back and forth during the night, keeping watch over the horizon and prepared to launch their cannons at any moment if they fell under attack.
Follow me across a drawbridge suspended over a murky moat where alligators used to lurk. Inside the fort we go, down the steps and into the living quarters. Notice the old communal latrine where soldiers went to poop. Here, the ghosts of smells past sometimes waft through the air.
Now we see a row of sleeping quarters where the walls are smudged with the graffiti and carvings of bored, homesick Spanish soldiers.
There are many ghost stories from the old fort, Mrs. Rabido, so I'll share one of the local favorites:
 
 
PRISONERS
OF LOVE
Once upon a time, some archaeologists were doing an excavation of one of the rooms in the old fort, and they found bones. People speculated about the bones: Had they discovered an old dungeon in the old fort? Maybe a torture chamber?
Well, eventually someone came forward to tell the tragic tale of a jealous Spanish colonel whose young wife fell in love with another officer in the Spanish army. When the colonel discovered the affair, he decided to punish his wife by giving her exactly what she wanted--the opportunity to be with her lover forever. The Spanish colonel ordered his men to chain the two lovers together and seal them into an airtight room where they would gradually suffocate and die in each other's arms.
(Sorry Mrs. Rabido; I warned you that this was a scary story!)
But here's good news : Now you can breathe a sigh of relief, Mrs. Rabido. As it turned out, this story is about as true as the headlines in our school newspaper. That's right; the story is completely made up--a local legend. The truth was that the archaeologist had discovered animal bones in the fort's old trash room. Of course, that's not as exciting as lovers sealed in a dungeon, is it?

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