There is nobody reading this, which is actually kind of liberating, so I will plug away.
Now 22 years old, he returned to Cuba, having earned his undergrad and masters in business from Columbia in only four years. He was immediately set up in the family jewelry business. His brother was away on business until the next evening, so they needed him to open the shop. The next morning when he walked into the shop, he noticed a light coming from the back room. Since it was a fairly small village, he wasn't too concerned, but four years in New York City had made him cautious. He opened the door to the back room and there, sitting on a cot, was an overweight man leaning over to tie his shoes. He seemed completely unaware that anyone had opened the door.
I could hear him grunting as he struggled to lean over his massive stomach to tie his shoes. I could even smell him. He didn't smell clean. It looked like he was living in the back room, but no one had told me that anyone was living there. "Excuse me," I said. He didn't look at me or move. "Discúlpeme," I said a little louder. This very unlikeable man lifted his head and looked at me. His eyes were red and swollen and his face was extremely puffy. It had that greyish color, like someone who drinks and smokes too much and oxygen isn't circulating. As I watched, he slowly faded away. I was staring at an empty cot in a dark room.
Later that night, my brother returned and we all gathered for supper at my parents. Still confused about what I had seen in the back rom, I secretly confided in my mother. She was a very spiritual woman and I needed someone to assure me I wasn't crazy. Before I was able to tell her that the man in the storage room had faded away, she said, "Holta! Say no more!" I was afraid I had alarmed her. She called over a nephew and told him to fetch my older brother quickly. When my brother came into the room, she sat the two of us down with pencil and paper and commanded us to write down what we had seen in the jewelry store. For fifteen minutes we both scribbled furiously. A small crowd of relatives gathered in mother's tiny parlor, but my brother and I kept writing, possessed by the need to tell our stories.
When we were done, mother gathered the papers and began reading, getting more and more excited with each word. Soon she called over Papa. "Look," she exclaimed. "I told you. He's here. He's here." Father read the papers and shook his head. "It can't be. The boys are playing a trick on you."
"How?" mother asked. "Roberto returned home only yesterday and Pepe was on a business trip until this afternoon. They have not spoken."
As Mother bustled around the parlor pulling out old family albums, she explained to me that while I was living in New York, my father's brother had come to him pleading for a job. He had lost his family and his business and had taken to drinking. My father allowed him to sleep in the back of the jewelry store and paid him a small salary on the pretense that he was providing security for the business. The brother had been estranged for many years and I had not seen him since I was a young child. Mother handed me a photo of my father and four other men standing in front of the jewelry store taken about a year before my return to Cuba.
"That's who I saw." I pointed to one of the men without hesitation.
"I have seen him every day since he died in that back room three months ago." Pepe was shaking his head, relieved that someone else had also seen our dead uncle.
The elderly gentleman stopped speaking; his lips tightened like someone who has said too much. His family stood around him in silent reverence, the silence once again broken by the peals of the ourthouse clock.
"We have taken enough of your time," he said politely and gracefully strode toward the parking lot.
"Thank you. Thank you." Each of his daughters and his wife clasped my hand and gave me hugs. "This is more than I have ever known about my father," said one of them.
I will never know if this very reserved, distinguished gentleman continued to see ghosts throughout his life. I do know that from that point on his daughters and grandchildren looked at him in a different light...as someone who shares their interests and beliefs and has a lifetime of stories to tell.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Distiguished Gentleman
Often when I lead tours, it is easy to pick out the skeptics. They have an air of disinterest, or worse, they hover like hunters about to pounce on prey, waiting for the chance to publically humiliate believers and thrill-seekers. While giving a tour in Northern Virginia, a very distinguished, elderly gentleman silently walked along with his family members. I couldn't tell if he was enjoying himself or was simply tolerating his wife, daughters and grandchildren. At the end of the tour, I noticed his wife gently nudging him. She finally spoke up and said "My husband has something to tell you." It is still one of the most powerful stories I've heard, not only because of the tale but because of the teller.
Reluctantly, in a soft voice that despite thirty years of living in the US had not lost a touch of its romantic Cuban accent, he began to weave a tale of murder and heartbreak that he had not told anyone since he first revealed it to his young fiance, now wife, forty years earlier. Immediately a hush fell among the rambunctious grandchildren. They leaned in closer to catch every word. Grandpapa speaking was a rare treat. Among the majestic oaks of the Leesburg, Virginia courtyard, this is the tale he told:
Growing up in impoverished Cuba in the 1940s was difficult. By the 1950s, Fidel Castro was in the early stages of his political climb, and it was obvious that Cuba was leaning toward becoming a socialist state and severing ties with the US. My parents were wealthy jewelers and knew how to remain neutral in a political argument. They traveled frequently on business and had earned a reputation as devoted Cubans. They convinced the government that it would be good for Cuba if my brother and I were sent to the US for our education. The government agreed, but would only allow one of us to go. Four years younger than my brother, he decided it would be better for me to go. He wanted to remain in Cuba, marry his sweetheart and run the family business. These decisions were made quickly and it was within a couple of weeks that I left my home country for the first time.
My mother packed my best suit and a sandwich, put me on a plane immediately after Sunday mass and sent me to Columbia University in New York City, not only one of the finest colleges in the US, but also the center of the business world. I arrived just in time for the mid-September semester. An apartment had been arranged by a family friend, so when I got off the airplane, I was able to give the taxi driver an address. I was seventeen years old with my own apartment in New York City. It was a clean building probably four or five stories tall. I was on the third floor. Room 312.
The apartment door opened into a little living area, with a galley kitchen to the left and a bedroom and small bath on the right. For some reason the kitchen angled off the back wall of the living room so once you were a couple steps out of the bedroom into the living room, you had a clear view into the galley kitchen. I imagine that the kitchen in the adjoining apartment also angled awkwardly and the dead space the odd angles created was used for piping and duct work.
My first week in the apartment I was exhausted and slept soundly. Classes started immediately and I didn't have time to do more than eat and sleep. I was grateful when Friday came around and looked forward to sleeping in on Saturday. All I wanted to do was fix a traditional Cuban meal and write letters home. The first thing I noticed when I opened my apartment door was a glowing light coming from the kitchen and the sound of a female humming. "Who's there?" I asked. The humming stopped. "Is someone there?" The light didn't really turn off, but it slowly faded...like a movie fading to black. I convinced myself that it was my imagination, but I went out to dinner that night.
The spell of his melodic voice was broken briefly as we all startled at the sound of the courthouse clock chiming midnight. "What happened next, Papa?" His grandchildren huddled around him. The youngest grasped his hand and looked up at him deeply, taking in all of the nuances of this newly discovered man. "I do not want this to be too much for you." He smiled down at the little one. They begged him to continue.
Nothing more happened that night or the rest of the week. Eventually I convinced myself that I had heard the humming of a neighbor and the light was reflected from the hallway. Then on Friday, as I walked down the hallway toward my apartment, I could see the light coming from underneath the door. As I watched, the light was interrupted as if someone was walking in the living room. I pressed my ear to the door and again heard the soft humming of a female. Quietly, I walked up and down the hallway, pressing my ear to the doors of my neighbors. I heard many sounds of people inside, but no one humming. I went back to my door and again there was the humming sound. It was a Doris Day tune, you know the one...'Are the stars out tonight. I don't care if it's cloudy or bright. I only have eyes for you...' I'll never forget it. Then CRASH! It was as if something was broken, a plate, or a lamp. I quickly opened the door and the apartment was pitch black.
Coming from a small, safe Cuban village, I was not cautious. Besides, crime in New York City in the 1950s was not like it is today. If there was someone in my apartment, I assumed they were there accidentally. I was not afraid of intruders. "Is someone in here?" I already knew there wasn't. A small window in my bedroom went to the fire escape. I checked it and it was still locked from the inside. Also, I could find nothing broken. I had very few furnishings and very few dishes, so it was easy for me to see that nothing had been taken or broken.
Another week passed and I began to dread Friday night. I had made a few friends at Columbia and they invited me to dinner. Maybe, I thought, if I go home later there will be nothing there. My new friends and I lingered over coffee after dinner, but eventually I knew I had to go home. I had told no one of the strange things in my apartment and I did not want them to think me odd by overstaying our visit.
There were no lights on in my apartment. I looked through each room and nothing was out of place. Relieved, I went to bed around midnight, hoping that whatever had happened the previous two Fridays was over. Soon I was asleep and dreaming, but my dreams included a woman sobbing. In a half-sleep state, I tried to make sense of it. Was the sobbing in my dreams or was it real. Realizing that I was fully awake, I got out of bed, opened the bedroom door and took a couple of steps into the living room. A light was on in the kitchen, but it was not a bright light. It seemed to be toward the back kitchen wall and very dim. I stepped toward the kitchen doorway and there, standing at the sink, was a slender, young woman holding a bloody kitchen knife. Despite the slight autumn chill, she wore a flowered sundress and sweat glistened on her chest, shoulders, and arms. She was turning the knife over and over in her hands and her tears fell onto the blade. She turned and looked at me with the saddest eyes I have ever seen. "Are you OK?" I'm not sure if I said it out loud, but she smiled at me. "Can I help you?" She slowly faded away and the room was instantly dark. Nothing about her frightened me. I felt sorry for her.
Eventually I fell back to sleep. It was past noon before I woke up and I had a lot of laundry to do, so I headed to the basement laundry room. I had not met any of my neighbors yet and was pleasantly surprised when a bubbly, young girl was also doing her laundry. Her name was Amy, I remember it because it seemed like such an American name. We chatted about school and the building and how hard it is to make friends in a new city. She then told me that she used to have a friend, but that friend died. Amy's eyes teared up as she explained that her friend was murdered by her boyfriend last August. My curiosity was peaked. The coincidence seemed too much. I did not want to add to Amy's sorrows or frighten her, but I had to find out how her friend had died and where she had lived.
Her boyfriend was the jealous type, Amy said. He would accuse her of being unfaithful and Amy suspected that he also hit her. One night he came home and found notes that she had borrowed from a male classmate. Without saying a word, he walked into the kitchen, picked up a knife, and stabbed the girl in the thigh then stormed out of the building. According to the police report, the girl bled to death on the kitchen floor. She had just lain there, her life's blood flowing from her body. She didn't cry out for help or try to stop the flow of blood. The woman who lived next door saw her door was partly open and the kitchen light was on and that's how they found her.
I was almost too scared to ask, but I needed to know..."What apartment did she live in?" It was on the third floor, Amy said. 312.
The gentleman stopped and looked around the speechless group. "What happened then, Father?" asked one of his daughters.
"Nothing," he said. "I do not believe in ghost. I lived there another two years and nothing else ever happened."
"She was probably happy that you were kind to her," said another daughter. Everyone seemed content with that response. "He never talks like this," she whispered to me confidentially.
"Tell them what happened when you returned to Cuba," his wife urged. Needing no further encouragement than the adoring look on his grandchildren's faces, he launched into a tale of his second "ghost" encounter...but I'll save that story for another day.
Reluctantly, in a soft voice that despite thirty years of living in the US had not lost a touch of its romantic Cuban accent, he began to weave a tale of murder and heartbreak that he had not told anyone since he first revealed it to his young fiance, now wife, forty years earlier. Immediately a hush fell among the rambunctious grandchildren. They leaned in closer to catch every word. Grandpapa speaking was a rare treat. Among the majestic oaks of the Leesburg, Virginia courtyard, this is the tale he told:
Growing up in impoverished Cuba in the 1940s was difficult. By the 1950s, Fidel Castro was in the early stages of his political climb, and it was obvious that Cuba was leaning toward becoming a socialist state and severing ties with the US. My parents were wealthy jewelers and knew how to remain neutral in a political argument. They traveled frequently on business and had earned a reputation as devoted Cubans. They convinced the government that it would be good for Cuba if my brother and I were sent to the US for our education. The government agreed, but would only allow one of us to go. Four years younger than my brother, he decided it would be better for me to go. He wanted to remain in Cuba, marry his sweetheart and run the family business. These decisions were made quickly and it was within a couple of weeks that I left my home country for the first time.
My mother packed my best suit and a sandwich, put me on a plane immediately after Sunday mass and sent me to Columbia University in New York City, not only one of the finest colleges in the US, but also the center of the business world. I arrived just in time for the mid-September semester. An apartment had been arranged by a family friend, so when I got off the airplane, I was able to give the taxi driver an address. I was seventeen years old with my own apartment in New York City. It was a clean building probably four or five stories tall. I was on the third floor. Room 312.
The apartment door opened into a little living area, with a galley kitchen to the left and a bedroom and small bath on the right. For some reason the kitchen angled off the back wall of the living room so once you were a couple steps out of the bedroom into the living room, you had a clear view into the galley kitchen. I imagine that the kitchen in the adjoining apartment also angled awkwardly and the dead space the odd angles created was used for piping and duct work.
My first week in the apartment I was exhausted and slept soundly. Classes started immediately and I didn't have time to do more than eat and sleep. I was grateful when Friday came around and looked forward to sleeping in on Saturday. All I wanted to do was fix a traditional Cuban meal and write letters home. The first thing I noticed when I opened my apartment door was a glowing light coming from the kitchen and the sound of a female humming. "Who's there?" I asked. The humming stopped. "Is someone there?" The light didn't really turn off, but it slowly faded...like a movie fading to black. I convinced myself that it was my imagination, but I went out to dinner that night.
The spell of his melodic voice was broken briefly as we all startled at the sound of the courthouse clock chiming midnight. "What happened next, Papa?" His grandchildren huddled around him. The youngest grasped his hand and looked up at him deeply, taking in all of the nuances of this newly discovered man. "I do not want this to be too much for you." He smiled down at the little one. They begged him to continue.
Nothing more happened that night or the rest of the week. Eventually I convinced myself that I had heard the humming of a neighbor and the light was reflected from the hallway. Then on Friday, as I walked down the hallway toward my apartment, I could see the light coming from underneath the door. As I watched, the light was interrupted as if someone was walking in the living room. I pressed my ear to the door and again heard the soft humming of a female. Quietly, I walked up and down the hallway, pressing my ear to the doors of my neighbors. I heard many sounds of people inside, but no one humming. I went back to my door and again there was the humming sound. It was a Doris Day tune, you know the one...'Are the stars out tonight. I don't care if it's cloudy or bright. I only have eyes for you...' I'll never forget it. Then CRASH! It was as if something was broken, a plate, or a lamp. I quickly opened the door and the apartment was pitch black.
Coming from a small, safe Cuban village, I was not cautious. Besides, crime in New York City in the 1950s was not like it is today. If there was someone in my apartment, I assumed they were there accidentally. I was not afraid of intruders. "Is someone in here?" I already knew there wasn't. A small window in my bedroom went to the fire escape. I checked it and it was still locked from the inside. Also, I could find nothing broken. I had very few furnishings and very few dishes, so it was easy for me to see that nothing had been taken or broken.
Another week passed and I began to dread Friday night. I had made a few friends at Columbia and they invited me to dinner. Maybe, I thought, if I go home later there will be nothing there. My new friends and I lingered over coffee after dinner, but eventually I knew I had to go home. I had told no one of the strange things in my apartment and I did not want them to think me odd by overstaying our visit.
There were no lights on in my apartment. I looked through each room and nothing was out of place. Relieved, I went to bed around midnight, hoping that whatever had happened the previous two Fridays was over. Soon I was asleep and dreaming, but my dreams included a woman sobbing. In a half-sleep state, I tried to make sense of it. Was the sobbing in my dreams or was it real. Realizing that I was fully awake, I got out of bed, opened the bedroom door and took a couple of steps into the living room. A light was on in the kitchen, but it was not a bright light. It seemed to be toward the back kitchen wall and very dim. I stepped toward the kitchen doorway and there, standing at the sink, was a slender, young woman holding a bloody kitchen knife. Despite the slight autumn chill, she wore a flowered sundress and sweat glistened on her chest, shoulders, and arms. She was turning the knife over and over in her hands and her tears fell onto the blade. She turned and looked at me with the saddest eyes I have ever seen. "Are you OK?" I'm not sure if I said it out loud, but she smiled at me. "Can I help you?" She slowly faded away and the room was instantly dark. Nothing about her frightened me. I felt sorry for her.
Eventually I fell back to sleep. It was past noon before I woke up and I had a lot of laundry to do, so I headed to the basement laundry room. I had not met any of my neighbors yet and was pleasantly surprised when a bubbly, young girl was also doing her laundry. Her name was Amy, I remember it because it seemed like such an American name. We chatted about school and the building and how hard it is to make friends in a new city. She then told me that she used to have a friend, but that friend died. Amy's eyes teared up as she explained that her friend was murdered by her boyfriend last August. My curiosity was peaked. The coincidence seemed too much. I did not want to add to Amy's sorrows or frighten her, but I had to find out how her friend had died and where she had lived.
Her boyfriend was the jealous type, Amy said. He would accuse her of being unfaithful and Amy suspected that he also hit her. One night he came home and found notes that she had borrowed from a male classmate. Without saying a word, he walked into the kitchen, picked up a knife, and stabbed the girl in the thigh then stormed out of the building. According to the police report, the girl bled to death on the kitchen floor. She had just lain there, her life's blood flowing from her body. She didn't cry out for help or try to stop the flow of blood. The woman who lived next door saw her door was partly open and the kitchen light was on and that's how they found her.
I was almost too scared to ask, but I needed to know..."What apartment did she live in?" It was on the third floor, Amy said. 312.
The gentleman stopped and looked around the speechless group. "What happened then, Father?" asked one of his daughters.
"Nothing," he said. "I do not believe in ghost. I lived there another two years and nothing else ever happened."
"She was probably happy that you were kind to her," said another daughter. Everyone seemed content with that response. "He never talks like this," she whispered to me confidentially.
"Tell them what happened when you returned to Cuba," his wife urged. Needing no further encouragement than the adoring look on his grandchildren's faces, he launched into a tale of his second "ghost" encounter...but I'll save that story for another day.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Disclaimer
This blog was started with the intent of retelling all of the fascinating stories I hear through my hobby of paranormal investigating and my habit of listening (aka eavesdropping) when people talk about their lives. Unlike the research, technical investigating, and fact-finding processes of investigating "haunted" locations, this is where I can unabashedly share stories I have heard and experienced, regardless of fabrication and embellishment. As far as each teller is concerned, all stories are true. I will make every effort to keep the tales in the wonderfully diverse vernacular of each teller. If you are a lover of folklore, you may enjoy this blog. If you feel the need to save my soul, be forewarned that I, like many of my counterparts, am very comfortable with my religious convictions.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)