Friday Evening
Muir had a bit of trouble getting away from his aunt’s house. “I’m not leaving Magnolia, Aunt Martha. Just moving into my new apartment.”
She hugged him for the fifth time in about forty minutes. “I just worry, Levi.” She didn’t repeat what she’d been saying almost every day since he’d arrived — how pleased she was that he’d come to her town, hopefully to settle down with a good local girl.
It wasn’t that girls were not on his mind, but Muir certainly had no intention of becoming involved again right away. “I’m sure I’ll see you often, Aunt Martha, at least on weekends. But let me get situated in this classroom environment before I invite you over for supper.”
“Oh, I have no intention of visiting you, Levi.” Martha spoke in a careful, lowered voice.
“Huh? That’s what we’ve been talking about… us staying in contact.”
“You’ll have to come here, Levi. I can’t go, um, there.” She shook her head slowly.
“Why on earth not? If my cooking’s so terrible, I’ll just order something in.”
Martha’s eyes closed briefly as she clutched his forearm. “I’ve never set foot in that old hotel, and don’t plan to.” After she released his arm, she stroked it lightly as though wanting to smooth the resultant wrinkles in his shirt. “You’ll come here, Levi.”
He sighed audibly. “Okay, Aunt Martha, but it probably won’t be during this first week or two. I expect my hands will be full with the kids and getting to know my new colleagues.”
“You find you a sweet Alabama girl, Levi,” she said, nodding her head. “If not at the church house, then at school. We raise them nicer here.”
With no suitable reply to that final statement, Muir kissed his aunt’s cheek, checked his watch again, and hurried out the door with selected belongings in a gym bag.
From Martha’s place in the east side of town, it was about two miles to downtown Magnolia. The old Majestic Hotel squatted on the square and seemed to stare northward like a sentinel stationed to warn citizens of danger. At three stories of mid-19th century red brick, it was the tallest building of the original city. Other dominant features were the ornate ledges between floors and elaborate arches over each huge window. At the very top, spaced along the entire roofline, were scores of intricate decorations which appeared, from that distance, like scouting hawks or hungry ravens.
A few minutes before five p.m., Muir finally got his key from the Whitecliff manager. Mr. Coombe was short and thin, with pale skin and receding hair. Probably in his forties.
“Wanted to ask you… I heard a lot today about this place having some sort of peculiar history or something. Back when it was an operational hotel, I guess.”
Coombe looked up furtively and gathered his phone and keys. “And…?”
“And I hoped you could fill me in. Maybe explain why people look and talk funny when they refer to this place.”
“Well, that’s a long story.” Suddenly both his expression and voice seemed strained. Coombe pointed to the wall clock in his smallish office. “And I’m really in a rush at the moment.”
Muir stepped sideways enough to block the door. “Just the broad strokes. Give me a thirty second sound bite.”
The manager’s eyes widened when he realized his escape route was compromised. “Very well. The Majestic was built shortly after the Civil War as two stories. Third floor added near the end of that century. Was the center of social activity in this area for several decades but fizzled out in the fifties, after things settled from World War Two and Korea.” Coombe eyed the clock again. “Vacant for about fifteen years or so… can’t recall exactly. Some wanted to tear it down to make office space, others wanted to restore it. What you see is the compromise.” He motioned for his new tenant to step aside.
Muir didn’t move. “Thanks for the summary, but you didn’t say anything about why people act so spooked whenever this hotel is mentioned.”
The manager’s eyes seemed to focus on something behind Muir and the slight man appeared to quake with anxiety. From the nearby coat rack Coombe grabbed his umbrella — not needed for a sunny afternoon — and brandished it as though he’d charge.
Wisely, Muir stepped aside and let him pass. “I live here now, Coombe. If there’s something I should know, you have a responsibility to tell me.” But his words fell on the manager’s coattails as Coombe skittered out the door looking over his shoulder.
A faint, pleasant scent filled the air — not a heavy cologne such as Coombe might wear, but more like a refined lady’s perfume. Muir sniffed in a few directions but couldn’t discern its source.
Muir had started to head upstairs to his new lodgings, but a stomach rumble reminded him the low-cal, low-carb platters of vegetables and cheeses provided by the school’s PTA had not exactly been filling. He certainly couldn’t quiz the departed manager, so Muir stood outside the building’s front and stopped a man who looked like he’d play a lawyer in a movie. “Could you direct me to a restaurant nearby?”
“Walking distance?”
Muir nodded. “If possible.” His unhealed ankle would allow short, leisurely strolls, but no long hikes.
“Well, we’ve got a diner over beyond the courthouse, plus some fast food down past the gas station.” He pointed in a southwesterly direction. “Oh, and a Mexican place across from the drug store.”
“How’s the Mexican food?”
“Pretty good unless you’re expecting Tex-Mex.” The man shrugged and eyed the direction he’d been heading.
“Doesn’t matter. Where’s it situated?”
“Head west to Park Street and turn south for about two blocks. It’ll be on your left. If you cross Beech Avenue, you’ve missed it.” He resumed walking.
“Okay, thanks.” Muir’s wave was unnecessary, as the possible lawyer was already moving. Not the friendliest folks I’ve ever encountered. The man’s pace visibly slowed after he passed the front of the hotel.
On his short walk, Muir noticed many buildings with prominently marked dates — several having been erected before 1900. Most were two story brick and many crunched wall-to-wall with their neighbors, though some blocks had narrow alleys. Despite the plentiful overhead sunlight of late afternoon, all those claustrophobic alleyways were dark.
He found the restaurant easily enough and ordered a combo plate dinner featured on 95 percent of the Mexican menus he’d ever seen — beef enchiladas with rice and beans. One day he’d find out how Tex-Mex differed from whatever he’d been eating in similar establishments all over the southeast United States. But not tonight. His brain required rest and his nerves needed to settle. Two beers with his dinner introduced a nice minor buzz.
On his way back to the Whitecliff, Muir reflected on his encounter with the lovely Lucy, including that electricity as she’d touched his thigh. Haven’t felt that in a while. Hadn’t really felt much of anything, in fact. If Lucy wasn’t spoken for, maybe he’d find the resolve to speak up.
He walked up Bridge Street, along the large hospital complex and turned east on Longleaf Avenue to approach his lodgings from the opposite direction, Orchid Street. This afforded his first look at the east side of all three floors and he discerned a very slight difference in brick color between the older second floor and the newer third. He’d check later for a date on the front. But that moment, walking toward the northeast corner, he distinctly chilled as he gazed up at the windows of his new apartment.
One— the east-facing window nearest the corner — looked totally dissimilar. Its glass seemed to refract light differently. Perhaps it was thicker. Its panes appeared to be contained by a different material than the framing — aluminum, probably — of its neighbors. Most significantly, the topmost portion had three arches, a larger between two smaller ones. All three of those sections featured stained glass, though Muir detected only multiple colors, not patterns.
Among the uniqueness of that window, Muir suddenly spotted a strikingly beautiful lady in an elaborate antique costume, who stared directly at him. He blinked and checked behind whether anybody else nearby may have seen her, but no one was around. When Muir looked back up, the woman was gone — she’d apparently stepped away. Weird. I know I saw somebody. It was only about seven o’clock and still plenty of daylight remained in late August. Must have been a reflection from somewhere else. Scanning the other second story windows nearby, he saw mostly closed curtains or blinds.
Maybe he’d drunk those beers too quickly.
Continuing around the block, he entered what he finally recognized as an old hotel. Carving up the first floor for office spaces had erased most traces of what had once been an opulent establishment. Currently, that faded luxury was evident only in a small portion — possibly preserved, but more likely restored — of the former main lobby which faced the grand stairway. Like many staircases of an earlier period, in facilities without elevators, it was wide enough to handle scores of people at the same time. Rising majestically about two-thirds of the way up, it opened to a landing which then split left and right with additional steps connecting to the second floor hallways which still existed, presumably as originally built. At the second level, they doubled back and would have risen again to the third floor except those casements were portioned off, awaiting future renovation.
At the top, Muir turned left, placing him in the dark east hallway. At the far north end, that passage terminated at the door to his corner suite — he was home. He fumbled with the three keys Coombe had provided; one was for the building entrance, another to Suite Seven, and the third unmarked. His apartment key was considerably more current than the vintage skeleton key he would have expected for an old hotel space.
After unlocking, he stepped inside the silent suite and plopped the keys on a small delicate table near the door. Instead of feeling like he’d finally reached his new home, however, Muir had the distinct sense he had inadvertently wandered into someone else’s environment. So he ducked back out to the hall to re-check the suite’s number. Yes, Number Seven.
Muir had seen the apartment before, of course, but it had been in daytime as the impatient manager briskly herded him through its four spaces. Now he took a leisurely tour. Difficult to imagine how the moody interior looked when the structure had been a hotel, but the suite presently occupying the northeast corner of second floor offered everything he needed — living area, bedroom, modest kitchen, and small bath.
Standing just inside the suite, he realized the four spaces seemed to represent a hodgepodge of eras. On his left was the small bathroom, with shower, tub, toilet, and lavatory — all dated, but probably not farther back than the 1970s. Seemed clean enough, but smelled a bit musty. The kitchen, with one north-facing window near its sturdy round table, had every fixture and appliance he’d need and also seemed to be from about the 1970s — except for a bargain brand modern microwave and coffee maker. It scarcely looked as though a meal had ever been prepared therein.
His new bedroom, to the immediate right, had one east-facing window. Its mattress squeaked a bit but seemed to be of reasonable quality and consistency. Muir was no expert at furnishings, but the bed frame, stuffed chair, small elegant desk, and wooden chair all looked like they were from around the 1930s. No visible dust, but — like the bathroom — it seemed musty.
The sitting room, or living area, or parlor — whatever it should be called — really stood out. With surprisingly dim artificial light from the extravagant chandelier and fading outside light from that corner’s north and east-facing windows, Muir surveyed the décor. The furnishings were far more ornate than he was accustomed to, and seemed more like a period movie set than any motel or hotel he’d ever been in. Though everything in the parlor felt antique, nothing seemed musty or badly worn — suggesting they’d been well cared for and/or little used, which made no sense whatsoever in either a hotel or an apartment. It was almost as though someone had just shipped them from a prestigious museum.
To Muir’s undiscerning knowledge and decorating taste, the furnishings simply seemed about a hundred years old, but the apartment’s restored parlor area was actually a model of post-Victorian upscale home fashion.
Despite some three dozen tiny bulbs, the chandelier in the middle of the parlor’s ceiling did not provide much illumination. No doubt this was due to roughly one-third of them having burned out. In the northwest corner stood wooden book shelves mostly empty. At the northeast corner Muir peeked behind a paneled screen, which hid nothing but more wallpaper, though he sensed something once belonged there. Centered on the north wall’s window was an old couch in a muted floral design with rich curved wood in the arms.
Angled near either end were comfortable upholstered armchairs with matching fabric design. From each, one could see out both parlor windows, though most advantageously to the east. Their views through the north window were from nearly opposite angles: northeast and northwest. In front of the couch was a delicate wooden table with fold up wings featuring handle slots. With the wings down it possibly formed an oval.
In the southeast corner was a garish metal floor lamp, also with burned out bulbs. Dominating the south wall of the parlor were the front, sides, mantel and hearth of a massive fireplace, but darkly painted wallboard completely covered its cavity.
Evidently for a long previous period, some small piece of furniture had been situated west of the fireplace, because two tiny but deep impressions remained in the luxurious Oriental rug which covered most of the parlor’s wooden floor.
Through the north window, looking beyond the town square, Muir could see all the way to the levee which restrained the narrow Little Tensaw Branch River. To the west, he could almost see the beginning of the swampy area, improbably close to downtown; to the east, nearly as far as the distant railroad trestle.
Out the east window, which presently looked exactly like all the other windows, Muir glanced down to the place he was standing when he’d felt the chill and seen the costumed woman. He scanned all the buildings visible from that spot, trying to guess which one may have caused such a reflection to appear as though a person was actually present in the position he occupied at that moment.
A noise. Was it a whisper? If so, then a sad undertone, without discernable words. Or if a faint tune, then distant and elusive. Muir sensed the sound clearly enough to look for a source, but equally certain he’d just imagined it, he dismissed the noise as perhaps the radio of a quickly passing vehicle on the street below.
On the round kitchen table, he laid out his material from two days of new teacher orientation and three days of professional development sessions. Frankly, he had not learned much and the trainers had seemed as bored with their material as the reluctant audience had been. He hoped that was not typical of Magnolia High School’s in-service training.
Muir wasn’t sure what to make of sturdy Principal Gull and hoped he would be assigned nearly any other faculty member as his mentor, if he was required to have one. Given his choice, he would learn as he went along and preferred not to be dependent on the personality or perspective of someone who was a mentor only by virtue of having a few more teaching years under her or his belt. Lucy had not elaborated but still left the impression that Gull was over her head as an administrator and not especially perceptive. Muir had been assigned mentors in the military, but they were individuals whose experience and wisdom drew the younger troops to their sides. Such was the proper relationship… rather than a mutual burden on two reluctant participants.
Sorting through his small mountain of paperwork, he selected the semester schedule and faculty roster as the only valuable items and stacked the rest in the nearly empty bookcase in the parlor. A quick circuit through the bedroom and bathroom reminded Muir to return to his truck for the rest of what he’d need overnight — Dopp kit and a change of clothes.
Hours later, as he undressed for bed, Muir had a sense he was being watched. Checking the windows again, he couldn’t see anybody across the street… though it was clear people lived in several of those second stories because many had lights on, albeit behind curtains or blinds. Though he closed the curtains on his four windows, it did not dampen the feeling of curious eyes upon him.
Over Friday night, his first in the Whitecliff Apartment / Majestic Hotel, Muir slept fitfully with unusual dreams. The images he could later recall were vague and shadowy — a unique window, old furnishings, someone whispering or possibly humming, and that aroma he’d first sensed in the manager’s office. Though too vague and too wispy to categorize, it left a notion of something rich and sweet… and old. When he woke, Muir thought he recalled the dream smell as similar to honeysuckle, but that wasn’t quite it. Something else… something with strength and mystery, though cloaked in dusty sweetness.