I Saw Her

While this story is true, preachers, counselors, advisors, editors, and others have always doubted my words. Dear reader, if you too doubt these words, then I advise you to avoid the historic homes along the coast of North Carolina.

The first time it happened was a cool and foggy night in October, seems like yesterday, but it was several years ago. I had rented a large Victorian house along the river. The rent was waived if I completed many of the renovations.

The rental agent told me that it was a historical house, but had not qualified for the registry because of a flaw in the qualifications. I didn’t understand, but she explained, the original house burned in the 1930s and the current structure only shares the foundation and design of the original house—which was built by a sea captain sailing between North Carolina and Ireland, sometime in the late 1800s.

At the time, the history mattered little to me, as I needed a place to live while my company relocated out of the area and my new assignment would begin. I was told it would be about a year. Officially, I was left to close the operation. Unfortunately (or fortunately) my home sold in 30 days, and I was left without a bedroom, except at a local hotel. I also had little furniture as my wife cleaned out the house when she left me and filed for divorce, the few old pieces remaining I donated to the Salvation Army. I bought a futon off a truck parked in the Home Depot parking lot. I also bought a folding table and two chairs. I picked up towels and other sundries at a discount store.

The two-story structure was a mass of rooms with chipped plaster and peeling wallpaper. I immediately set to work to make the repairs, finding the cool October evening refreshing, as the house had no air-conditioning (or central heat). I was sleeping downstairs since the upstairs bedroom had yet to be renovated. My apartment sized refrigerator held mostly sodas and beer, and a Rubbermaid box held the rest.

Okay, back to that first night. I settled onto my mattress to watch the late news on a small television. Sometime in the night my television went off and a light touch of hand woke me. I turned and squinted, candlelight flickered nearby and a copper haired woman looked down and smiled at me. Her beautiful facial features immediately made me stare.

“It’s more comfortable upstairs,” she whispered; and then began to leave the room, but she stopped at the doorway, and looked back.

My eyes had not truly focused but she seemed to be beckoning me to follow her. I rolled off the mattress and prepared to encounter some sort of trap. I carefully began walking toward the doorway, “Damn,” I said to myself. “My Glock is in my truck.”

She went to the staircase and appeared to glide up the stairs; her long white dress dusting the stairs as she walked.

Still only half awake, I followed. She led me into a small room on the front of the house and dropped the long dress on the floor as she crossed into the room. My now my male curiosity had me in its grips. I hurried into the room, but she was not there, and neither was the candle.

I ran back down the stairs and secured a flashlight and then searched the whole house including the attic. I determined I was dreaming and anxiously went back to my bed. My heart was thumping so hard I thought I might have to call the EMTs. But, I awoke, without an issue, the next morning and tried to reflect on the night before.

For the next two weeks she became a nightly visitor.

The weather began to change and for a house with no heat that meant the fireplace. There were four in the house, two up and two down. I was concerned only with the one downstairs and enlisted a chimney sweep to clean two of the fireplaces and flues on the first floor; it turned out the two upstairs were connected to the ones downstairs, so those two were repaired also. Remarkably, the inside brickwork was deemed acceptable and only an outside covering was needed—I figured a couple more months rent would be subtracted as a result—I saved the receipts. I excitedly built my first fire; the multiple blankets on my bed were hardly enough for the cool nights.

I had an electrical drop run into the living room (I was using as a bedroom) so I had electricity for my television, fridge, microwave and a lamp. I didn’t have enough current for a space heater, if I used any of the other appliances. That problem would have to be solved by an electrician—after my next company paycheck—which my ex got half of.

The fire flickered and I dozed and read by my small lamp. Sometime during the evening the lamp went off and I was awakened my the same red haired woman who instead of inviting me upstairs, settled onto the futon next to me. She put her head on my shoulder and hand on my leg. Her tiny face had perfect features. Her body felt cool but the long white gown brushed my legs and seemed quite real.

“Who are you?” I asked.

She put a finger on my lips and picked up my hand. While I didn’t feel a tug she pulled me toward the doorway and then again I followed her up the stairs where I watched her walk into the small room and the dress fall off her shoulders, and then she disappeared.

The next day after work I called the rental agent and asked, “Is that house haunted?”

The rental agent asked me to come in and meet. I begrudgingly drove to her office and slid into her side chair. She walked around me and closed the door.

“Some say it might be,” she began,“Nobody has actually lived in the house for very long since it was rebuilt.”

“Well, that makes sense,” I laughed. “I think there is a spirit living there.”

The real estate agent grinned. “Let me tell you the history of the original owner.”

“I’m listening.”

“The sea captain was gone much of the time. His young wife, an Irish woman, it is said, took a young man as a bedroom partner. One night the captain returned and caught the wife with her lover and ran her through with his cutlass. The lover apparently escaped into the night.”

“Interesting story. I wonder if the tale says where she was murdered?”

The agent took a breath. “It is said, that a small upstairs bedroom was the site of the tryst, because as a proper lady she never allowed her lover into her own bedroom.”

That night I sat by the fire and waited for my visitor. But, she didn’t appear. Indeed, she didn’t appear for nearly another year. Again, it was late fall. I had arranged electricity and heat in the house by that time but I still enjoyed the fireplace. I was still living on the first floor as my expenses in remodeling had limited my expansion of work. I built my fire turned on my lamp and picked up the latest mystery novel. At nearly midnight the lamp went off and I felt her glide onto the futon next to me.

I turned my head to see her. “I’ve missed you.”

She started to put her fingers to my lips. “Shhh,” she whispered.

“Are you the captain’s wife?” I asked.

A startled look came on her face. She jumped up and ran out of the room and flew up the stairs. I tried to follow, but when I turned toward the small bedroom she was gone. I never saw her again. A month later I closed the house and moved to Raleigh, but I’ll never forget the copper haired woman who shared my house. I wonder if she will visit the next occupants.

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A post script: I have since retired and purchased the house and am continuing the renovations. Nobody had lived in the Victorian cottage since I did, ten years earlier, so much of my prior renovations have to be redone. I am still looking for her.