WINIFRED

“You’re blocking me.”

Turning around, I saw the child-sized, wicker-backed chair had begun its slow, steady rock. The ancient oak didn’t creak on the dusty plank floorboards. For a moment, there were no sounds other than that of the little girl who pulled on my pants leg.

The sudden movement startled me. It shouldn’t have. We were touring a haunted building in Virginia City. Almost all the buildings have a story to tell, a haunting to lure tourists in, or a ghost to appease.

“Her name is Winifred,” said the tour guide. “She died here in the 1800’s. But her last name and cause of death are unknown.”

Winifred.

What was I blocking? Was I blocking her view from that corner into the rest of the room? Was I blocking her from seeing the many random onlookers who came to visit the prison of her death? Or was it the tour guide who was sharing information about the building we visited?

The tour guide said she was a ghost. Was I blocking her energy from me in some way? I used to see ghosts from time to time until I got sick. What did she want to tell me, other than I’m blocking her? She didn’t say I blocked her view.

Winifred.

Pondering her name, I let it roll off my tongue. Was that her real name? Was I blocking her light? The doll that rocked in the little oak chair stood tall for a doll.

We were told that she was a ‘memory doll’ created by the mourning parents of a little girl instead of a tombstone to mark the grave for her young body. Her remains were cremated and sewn into a doll modeled after the visage of the deceased child. The wavy, auburn hair on the doll once belonged on the head of that little girl who had passed.

How many of the dolls we see in Virginia City are ‘memory dolls’?

I didn’t know what to say to her then. I simply said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.” Because I didn’t. But now I wonder. Was I referring to the doll or the spirit of the girl who possessed it?

Winifred appeared to join our tour group, rising from her place in the rocking chair. The doll stood by my side. No one seemed to notice. Just me and my newfound friend.

The doll was taller than I expected. Sitting in the rocking chair, she seemed slightly larger than the Mrs. Beasley Dolly doll I had as a kid. However, standing and walking around, she was more the size of a five- or six-year-old child.

Her porcelain skin was flawless, except for a few spots on her forehead where the porcelain peeled from her head like little scabs. Her right hand appeared to have been severed from her arm and reattached with a black strip of leather. Her bright blue eyes had a sadness about them that she didn’t explain. Her lips were delicate like soft rose petals held closed in a contemplative pose. Her ivory hair scarf was of fine satin and lace to match her elegant Victorian dress.

As we shuffled behind the rest of the tour group, I noticed her dress remained off the floor by about an inch, but I saw no feet. She made no sound as she went, which was also odd considering the constant creaking of my own footsteps.

“Excuse me,” she said. “It would please me to go past that next room without going inside.” She motioned toward the large room that our tour guide informed us was once a doctor’s office. That particular doctor saw many patients, especially children.

The tour guide told us to take a selfie in the diamond-speckled mirror off to the corner of the large room. “If you’re lucky,” he said, “Gertrude will share the selfie with you.”

“Gertrude. Huh. She was a careless girl,” Winifred said haughtily.

“Gertrude was hit by a horse-drawn buggy and lost her leg before losing her life,” the tour guide went on.

“See?” My doll companion said.

I didn’t go into the room where Gertrude took selfies with visitors. It seemed rude for me to leave my new friend.

“Where would you like to go now?” I asked her.

Winifred pointed down the hall. “There. I want to tell you about the man who killed himself in that room.”

No sooner had Winifred and I entered the dimly lit space than the tour guide brought the small group he led into that room. Our guide explained the situation that caused the man so much sorrow he could not stand the pain. After witnessing the death of his beloved wife and their only son, he rented a room in the hotel next door, broke into this office at night, and hung himself.

“That’s not the entire story,” Winifred whispered. “That man was the one who killed his wife and child.”

As the tour group moved on to the next level, I asked, “Did he hang himself?”

Two women from our group turned around and glared at me with raised eyebrows. A man ahead of us stopped and stared.

“Sure.” She giggled.

Something made me disbelieve her. Perhaps I needed to ask her more questions. The strange looks from other members of the group silenced me.

Next, we entered the “Red Room” trailing the tour.

“I don’t like this room,” said a little boy.

Taking his hand, his father said, “Me neither.” The two exited and listened to the tour guide from the hallway.

“This is called the ‘red room’ because of the red-painted walls. This paint has not been touched since the seventies.”

“Liar.” Winifred gazed up at me and shook her head. “They recolor parts of this room every year when it is closed to tourists.”

“A demon is said to live somewhere in this room,” the tour guide continued.

“Humph.” Winifred pouted. “It is no demon. The man was named Tilman. He makes scary noises and scratches people.”

Scouring the room for more evidence of either Tilman or a demon, I waited while the others filed into the hallway. “You’re not afraid of Tilman?” I asked.

“Heavens, no. Who do you think put him here?” She laughed. “Come on. You don’t want to miss the next part of the tour.”

I followed her down the hall to another room. There was a sense of calm. The room had a chill to it. Here, I could see my breath. Outside, it was a balmy eighty degrees.

A wooden fence loosely guarded what appeared to be an unused decrepit stairwell. Peering over the edge, I could see the stairs far below were worn and cracked. Some steps were half-missing, and the landing was gone altogether.

Where’s Winifred?

I felt a push from behind. Turning, I struggled against an unseen force. I tried to halt my progress. Sliding, I crossed the dusty planks towards the gaping hole in the floor. Waving my arms, I struggled frantically to catch hold of the wooden rail. The air was thick with the smell of perfume and decay. My nostrils flared.

“Ahhh!” I cried as I dropped into the dark pit.

“It would please me to be friends – forever.”