Disturbed by the turn the tour with Margaret and Molly had taken, Rebecca hesitated to continue. “I was going to show you our most famous ‘haunted’ room next. But if you’d rather not…”
“We’re fine, dear,” Margaret hastened to assure her, “Aren’t we, Molly?” The other medium nodded. “We both put on protections before we came today – just in case. You never know what you might encounter in a place this active. Let’s go pay a visit to Sybil.”
The two mediums were obviously well acquainted with the life – and afterlife --story of Mrs. Dawson Thorne. Rebecca was relieved not to have to tell it again. They climbed the stairs to 940. Rebecca knocked on the door before tapping the key card on the pad. For once, it worked on the first try. The historian had intentionally left off all but a few of the lights in the suite when she’d previewed it before the tour. They closed the door gently behind them.
“I smell soup,” Molly said. “Someone’s making soup over there.”
Margaret was quiet, gazing around the sitting room, taking it all in. “I’m drawn to this corner,” she said, walking slowly to the far side of the room. “I sense Sybil sitting here for hours on end, not even looking out the windows. She’s sad, so very sad – remembering the social life she no longer enjoys and just wanting to disappear. It’s like she’s collapsing inside of herself, imploding….” Margaret’s eyes filled with tears and her voice was choked. “I smell medicine, but she doesn’t want to take it. Doesn’t care if she dies. She feels ugly and abandoned. Her sons don’t even come to see her. And her nurses are cruel to her. So lonely, so sad…”
“I see a very old woman restrained in a wheelchair in this bedroom,” Molly said from the doorway. “She’s slumped over, would probably slip out of the chair without the straps. She feels like a prisoner….. She doesn’t want anyone to see her like this.”
“During Mrs. Thorne’s years in this apartment, they say she grew increasingly reclusive and increasingly senile,” Rebecca confirmed.
“She’s very insecure, pitiful and helpless – not at all the haughty person you always hear she was in her social heyday,” Margaret said, still visibly affected by the grief she sensed.
Sans segue, the medium turned to the historian. “Sybil has message for you,” she said, regarding Rebecca sternly, “Stop saying she was ‘heartless’ on your tours. She wants you to know she had a heart – a generous, trusting heart -- and it was broken by her young man. He was the true love of her life. Her husband Dawson was never emotionally available. I’m getting that he liked men – boys, actually…”
She had Rebecca’s riveted attention.
“Sybil wants you to know that she never intended to destroy the man who betrayed her,” Margaret continued, “Never meant to drive him to suicide. The news of his death devastated her.
“And she asks that you never speak her lover’s name. On tours in this room, when you tell her story, don’t say his name. It hurts her something awful to hear it and remember how he deserted and humiliated her.”
Taken aback, Rebecca promised never to mention the name of Barkley Heath in the suite again. Sybil Thorne had been a flesh-and-blood person, the admonishment from Beyond reminded the historian – not just a character. If her spirit did indeed haunt this suite, the sensitivity and vulnerability the woman had in life would linger, as well.
Caught up in the surreal moment, Rebecca wondered aloud. “If Mrs. Thorne was so unhappy during her years at The Keep, why is she still here? I would think she’d haunt her old Capitol Hill mansion, where she could relive all the elaborate parties of her happier glory days.”
The mediums seemed to ponder her question for several moments.
“I don’t know why she’s here,” Margaret said at last. “But I suspect she’s punishing herself. I wish we could set her spirit free and let her rest in peace. Even if she wasn’t always the nicest person during her lifetime, surely she doesn’t deserve to endure this sort of torment for eternity.”
“Be careful, Margaret,” her fellow medium cautioned. “That’s not our call to make.”
Margaret glanced at her wristwatch then, and the mundane intervened. “Gracious, my parking meter ran out half-an-hour ago! The time just flew by, didn’t it?”
Molly agreed and said that she had to move on, as well. “But it’s killing me. We’re just beginning to scratch the surface of The Keep’s many layers.”
Rebecca considered her proposal carefully as they rode the elevator back to the lobby. “This has been fascinating for me, too. Would you ladies consider returning next week as my guests? I’d love to show you the hotel archives and hear more of your impressions of the place.”
The mediums grinned at each other with delight. “Would we?! That would be a dream come true. You have our emails. Just let us know when. The sooner the better. Thank you!”
“The Keep spirits support you, you know,” Margaret said as they explored the archives together the following week. “They appreciate your passion and all you do to protect the artifacts. You have two guardians in this space – both female, both very proprietary. They want to be sure you know these things are not yours, but only yours to care for.”
“Yes, of course.”
“One of them says, ‘Bring back the book.’ Does that mean anything to you?” Molly asked.
Representative Women of Colorado. She’d taken the rare book home from the archives months ago for research. “Yes,” Rebecca replied. “I understand the message. Please excuse me, Charlotte,” she added sheepishly, glancing toward the ceiling.
Rebecca randomly withdrew an old 1898 guest register from the storage slots on one side of the center island cabinet and opened it on the desktop podium for the mediums’ inspection. Molly lightly traced the signatures with her finger, almost reverently. “I can feel their personalities in their handwriting,” she marveled. “This is wonderful!”
The original blueprint of the ground floor that Rebecca next laid out for the mediums’ inspection evoked a strong reaction from Molly.
“The architect has so much pride in this design, so much satisfaction in this accomplishment. But something’s not quite right…” Molly followed the outline of the floor plan with her open hand, palm down, hovering just above the rendering. “This was his masterpiece, his perfect creation. But someone made him change something at the last minute. An adjustment – minor, I think, but more than he wanted to make. Something about a capstone – I’m getting that word ‘capstone’ – and ‘blood.’’ He had to make the change against his will, and he had to make it…in the dark?”
Rebecca shrugged. “I’ve never heard about any last-minute adjustments, unless…” She remembered Lochlan’s assertion that the Keep was intentionally positioned to correspond to the cosmic cycles. “Could the building footprint have been slightly tweaked to align the entrance with the equinox?”
Molly’s eyes turned from the blueprint and flashed at the historian. It was as if the medium had momentarily receded and something else had surfaced. “You’re not supposed to know that,” her menacing voice accused.
Rebecca instinctively recoiled from the intensity of the reaction. Molly blinked and laughed uneasily. “So sorry,” she said. “I don’t know where that came from. Don’t let it bother you. Just a blip from Beyond. All good now.”
Later, as they circumnavigated the fourth floor balcony, Margaret fell behind.
“Come stand here,” she called, beckoning Molly back to a spot they had passed. “Now look up there.” She pointed to the northeast corner of the stained glass skylight, high above the concierge desk. “Do you sense anything?”
Molly drew a deep breath, closed her eyes, then opened them again and directed her gaze to the space her fellow psychic indicated. “Oh my!” she said, startled. “It’s bright! Terribly bright. Like something burning. Like the sun…but the sun’s somewhere over here.” She glanced in a generally southwestern direction, then back to the high corner opposite. “What …what is it?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret confessed. “But I’m sensing great power…protective power. Whatever it is…whatever they are…they’re the reason the hotel has closed only once, the reason things that seem hopeless work out inside this building. They’re guardians…more than one, but I can’t tell how many…”
“Are they ghosts?” Rebecca asked for clarification.
“Oh no, not ghosts. They were never human.”
“They’re something else entirely,” Molly said, “They emanate from the building somehow, and yet they’ve always been here.”
“I’m sensing wings,” Margaret said. “Huge wings.”
“Griffins!” Rebecca concluded with satisfaction. “We’ve always said griffins guarded The Keep.”
Margaret was unconvinced. “I don’t think so. Griffins wouldn’t…blaze like this. Such intense light! They’re hard to describe. Part elemental, part ego, part engine…”
“I’d call it The Keep’s essence,” Molly declared.
When Rebecca later shared their perception with Lochlan, he was not surprised that the mediums had identified some sort of guardians in that particular part of The Keep. “In Freemasonry, all journeys begin in the east and end in the north, he said, “So the northeast corner of a structure is very symbolic, very important. That’s why Masonic cornerstones are laid there. So these guardians – whatever they are – the fact that they inhabit that ceiling space in the northeast of the atrium makes sense.”
“But what are they?” Rebecca asked.
Lochlan frowned at her as though she were being intentionally dense. “You know what they are.”
The historian shrugged helplessly. “Well, they sound like angels.”
“Not just angels – a special ‘class’, if you will, of celestial beings. It’s obvious to me they’re Dominions, like the one in the Salon fresco.”
“The residual presence of the Freemasons in this place is strong,” Margaret told Rebecca on her third visit with fellow medium Molly. “I’ve brought some Masonic things of my father’s I discovered after his death to try to draw out their spirits.”
She handed the historian several small scraps of paper. One was labeled “The Tree of Life,” a strange depiction resembling a block print, with leaves that looked nothing like leaves and a trunk that looked more like a spinal cord. Another was a drawing of a triangle with a sort of backwards “s” shape inside of it. The handwritten caption read “Signet – Sign of 32nd Degree Scottish Rite Mason – Prince of the Royal Secret.” Below this on the same small slip of paper were a series of words in some language unknown to Rebecca,
“Kabalah,” Margaret explained. The same language Lochlan had used to invite Charlotte’s spirit into the archives. An even smaller scrap had another Kabalah phrase, labeled “Word of the Master Mason – Given in the manner in which it is received – toe-to-toe knee-to-knee breast-to-breast hand-to-back ear-to-cheek.” On the reverse of this typed note were several handwritten scribbles, difficult to make out. Rebecca squinted and guessed: “’11333 perfect number…Moses Burning Bush…Secret name Ya-weigh…Lady of Perfection.’ Weird. Do you have any idea what these mean?”
Margaret shook her head. “No. But they do -- the builders of The Keep. I hoped bringing these secret things into the light would get a reaction out of them. And it has.”
“The Masonic spirits are very upset that she’s exposing these esoteric words and symbols without the knowledge that goes with them,” Molly said. “They’re actually cursing at her. They’re telling her to put them back where she found them.”
“And I’m telling them that I will – IF they share some secret of the building with us. These are my bargaining chips,” Margaret explained. “And I sensed the strangest revelation from the Masons a few minutes after I arrived. Something about bones. They told me there are bones in each corner of The Keep. Inside the structure itself.”
“Bones? What kind of bones? Animal? Not human bones, surely.” Rebecca found the message both bizarre and disturbing. “Why are the bones there?”
Margaret raised her hands in surrender. “That’s all they’ll tell me. I’m sorry.”
“I’m getting something else.” Molly cocked her head like a dog hearing a whistle inaudible to humans. “’How dare you judge us?’ they’re demanding. They’re angry. ‘You don’t know what this city was like. Chaotic. Cruel. Uncivilized. We did what was necessary. Made sacrifices, took care --- in the ancient traditions – to ensure success. To ensure continuance.’”
“We always love to come to this blessed place,” an elderly Hispanic woman told Rebecca one afternoon when she stopped to compliment the woman’s hat at Lobby Tea between tours. “Our Lord left his mark of favor on this hotel.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Rebecca replied hesitantly.
“The image of Our Lady on the wall,” the old woman said, “right over there by the doorway.”
Rebecca’s blank look prompted the woman to rise from her chair with some difficulty and take the historian’s arm. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”
The woman’s tea companions, probably her daughter and granddaughter, just smiled tolerantly and motioned for Rebecca to go along. Her guide steered her slowly across the lobby toward the Spa. The Mexican onyx that originally framed the massive lobby fireplace now provided an imposing entryway. To the right of one of the 3,000-pound flanking columns, the old woman pointed to a pattern in the stone.
“You can see her, the Blessed Virgin, here,” she said, tracing it with her finger. “Here is her head, covered and bowed. And here,” she continued, reverently touching another dark blemish, slightly lower on the stone, “is her Sacred Heart.”
She looked at Rebecca with deep satisfaction. “This is a sign that Our Lord watches over the hotel. We always feel safe and protected here.”
Signs and wonders, Rebecca thought. Everyone sees what they want to see -- maybe need to see -- be it sacred images, mystic secrets, or ghosts.
Rebecca squeezed the old woman’s hand. “Thank you for showing me this,” she said sincerely. In sharing her miracle, the devout woman had bestowed a blessing of her own upon a skeptic too blind to have seen it herself.
Like most urban centers, Denver was essentially two cities, widely disparate realities for the Haves and Have-Nots. The Griffins Keep catered to the privileged and prosperous, while her neighbor, Pinnacle Church, welcomed the less fortunate. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, their soup kitchen served more than 200 hot meals to the homeless. Keep associates volunteered once a month to help set-up, serve, and clean up after the free lunch. It was during one such shift that Rebecca met Charles, a gracious elderly gentleman member of the congregation who offered to give her and other interested volunteers a behind-the-scenes tour of the church.
The hotel historian was joined by Dawn from Sales, Amy, admin assistant for the Engineering department, and Luke, the charming bellman who sometimes led historical tours of the Keep in Rebecca’s absence. Charles was slow but nimble, they quickly discovered as he led them down a wooden ladder into Pinnacle’s unfinished basement.
“In the early years, we were tapped into the same aquifer as the Griffins Keep,” he explained, pointing in the general direction of their old well. “In fact, our pipe organ pump was hydraulically powered by pressure from an artesian well, just like your elevators.” He showed then the huge leather bellows that breathed life into the massive 4,275-pipe organ. “Wasn’t until the 1930s that we got this electric blower. Can you believe this beauty is more than 90 years old and still going strong? Won’t be long before they can say the same of me!”
“When did Pinnacle cap its well?” Amy asked.
“That would be 1917,” their guide reported. “The aquifer at the 480-foot level dried up with so many Denver homes and businesses tapped into it. Most everybody switched over to city water around that time. Except for The Keep, of course, which decided to drill down to a deeper source.”
Back up the ladder and into the sanctuary, the little group continued their exploration. “Every window in the sanctuary is stained glass – all original and made by the same outfit that did your stained glass skylight,” Charles said. “Our two buildings have lots of things in common. Of course, Denver was a pretty small town back then. Most new buildings used the same contractors and artisans.”
“What about Masonic connections?” Luke had been talking with Lochlan, obviously.
“A great many of our founding members were Freemasons,” Charles said. “They were among the most prominent and influential men in the city.”
“What about you, Charles? Are you a Freemason?”
Their guide smiled enigmatically. “Let’s just say I can keep secrets,” he replied before continuing. “Pinnacle’s cornerstone was laid by one of the local Masonic lodges. Over the decades, its inscriptions were obscured by coal soot residue and weathering, and for awhile, it was completely forgotten. It wasn’t until we undertook exterior restoration that the foundation stone was rediscovered. We opened it about 10 years ago on the 130th anniversary of our first service. Found all sorts of wonderful things left for us by our forebears. Newspapers, letters, photographs, church programs and bulletins, a hymnal, a membership list. And the symbolic golden trowel used to spread the first mortar on the foundation stone.”
“Cool. Where’s the Griffins Keep’s cornerstone?” Amy asked. They all turned to the hotel historian.
“I’ve asked Lochlan that same question,” Rebecca said, “and he tells me that Masonic cornerstones were always laid in the northeast corner of their structures.”
“That would be the Pirates’ Pub corner, right? I’ve never noticed anything there.”
“Apparently there isn’t. Lochlan thinks the stone might have been moved – or removed -- by the Kuhrsfelds when they remodeled that whole corner in the ‘30s. But the hotel may never have had a cornerstone. Freemasons traditionally dedicated them only in public or religious buildings, not commercial.”
“Sounds like a mystery we’ll just have to live with,” Dawn concluded.
Knowing that one of Pinnacle’s many highly prosperous members had ordered an imposing $30,000 pipe organ, the church architect had designed the sanctuary as a concert hall.
“The acoustics are sublime,” their guide declared. “I believe Isaac, our organ master, is coming in a little later this afternoon. If we’re lucky, we may hear him practice. But before that, let’s go crawl around the pipes, shall we? Watch your heads,” he cautioned as he directed them through a small wall panel he’d pried open. The organ pipes rose in graduated forests. Some metal. Some wood. “The largest is 42-feet high. The smallest, thinner and shorter than a pencil. The newer bank over there was added later to produce the sound of brass horns.”
They took turns posing among the pipes for cellphone photos.
Back in the sanctuary, Charles pointed out the impressive pulpit. Adjacent to that, the baptismal font featured a white marble Madonna and Child.
“Now, I have to take back what I said earlier about every window in the sanctuary being stained glass,” their guide said after identifying the tranquil sculpture’s artist and donor. “Have a look over on the south wall, way up above the balcony near the ceiling. See that small, square opening? Some of our Masonic members added that window when the baptismal statue was installed. From December 21 through Christmas Day every year, the sunlight streams through that window directly onto the Madonna.”
“How magical!” Amy said, looking up and imagining it.
Rebecca wondered if she’d heard right. Building elements aligned by Freemasons to key positions of the sun? December 21-- the winter solstice. Here, it seemed, was an example of exactly what Lochlan had suggested regarding The Keep’s orientation in relation to the annual solar trajectory. Maybe his theory wasn’t so farfetched after all.
The high point of their tour – literally – was Pinnacle’s bell tower. Though it appeared from the street to be part of the church structure, the tower and its soaring spire were completely freestanding. Made entirely of stone, the steeple pointed 183 feet heavenward, like a divine antenna for spiritual transmissions.
“Does the steeple have a lightning rod?” Rebecca asked.
“Not really necessary now, with all the skyscrapers in the neighborhood,” Charles told her.
“But what about in the early years? It had to have been higher than anything else around. And topped with a metal cross, seems like it would naturally attract strikes. Has it ever been hit by lightening?”
“Only once, I’m told,” Charles said. “A freak occurrence, as I understand it, back in 1917. Perfectly sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. They were doing some sort of work at the Griffins Keep, and there was an accident. You know, the hotel still generated its own electricity back then. Direct current from the basement dynamos, prone to – irregularities. An electrical bolt shot from the flagpole atop the Keep to the cross on our steeple.
“Guess they were never sure what happened exactly. But they say the shock wave of the thing shook the whole neighborhood.”