The Ghost of the Brookdale Lodge

 The Ghost of the Brookdale Lodge

“Did you hear? They’re going to open the Brookdale Lodge again? Some fancy Indian hotelier bought it!” Al hollered over the noise of the mill.

“Bought that little girl’s ghost, too, you know!” Brode’s voice came back over the noise of the saw. “Wonder if he knew what he got himself into.”

The mill quieted down; the log had finished running through.

“Oh, just lay off with the old wives’ tales,” Al laughed. “There’s no ghost! It was an accident. Slipped and fell on her head, the poor thing.”

“Maybe you’re right and it’s all just a bunch of hooey,” Brode shrugged, “but maybe it ain’t. Used to know a man who saw her ghost. Went plain crazy right after. Had to take ‘im to Saint Agnews over the hill in Santa Clara. Back when they still had them mental facilities over there. Never did see ‘im again after that. 

“Nah, people go crazy for lots of reasons. I know I’m gonna go nuts if I have to saw them logs here for the rest of my life. You might think to run away from ghost. Me, I gotta run from this here job.”

He turned quiet, then put in, “Truth is, I’m thinking of applying to the Lodge, restoring the restaurant.”

Brode made a dismissive hand motion. “You go right ahead if you’ve got the itch for it. Me, I’m happy right here. Just don’t come crying to me when the girl ghost nabs you.”

“Alright, alright. Still gonna get a few brewskies with me at the bar on Fridays? You won’t be sore?”

“Sore?” Brode laughed. “I’ll be glad when I don’t have to listen to you flapping on every Monday morning about how many girls you almost kissed. Much rather talk to you Friday night. That way, we can both entertain the thought that there’s a possibility it might happen. Which it won’t, and you know it, cuz you’re one ugly toad.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, make me.”

Al’s first day on the new job was all he ever dreamed of. The plan to restore the restaurant to its early 20th century condition meant taking meticulous care in everything they touched. There was much termite damage because of the excess moisture from the creek running through the center of the restaurant, the creek the owner’s daughter Sarah had drowned in. The banisters for the stairway leading up to the first gallery overlooking the creek had been taken down to bare wood by hand. The crew was running behind schedule, but the foreman insisted, he’d rather pay for overtime than cut corners. 

Al, who stood out to the foreman right from his first day for being highly skilled as well as conscientious, was asked to stay late and complete the banister work. He didn’t mind. The pay was good and he preferred the quiet of the night.

There would have been an eerie silence in the restaurant, had it not been for the brook gurgling its neverending story. Al focused on his work. His calloused hands caressed the repaired spots on the banister, noting any areas that needed addressing. It was getting late and he felt a draft come down the hall that made him roll down the sleeves of his Penelton shirt and tilt up his collar. Likely left a window open, Al thought, walked over and rounded the corner towards the end of the hall. All were shut, but that didn’t surprise him greatly. The architecture of this pieced together building was Santa-Cruz-Mountain-crazy and would have made the Winchester Mystery house look like  a highschool gym. And it wasn’t the draft that would make Al feel uneasy anyhow.

Whistling an old Irish tune, like he often did to make his work go faster, he turned the hall corner to resume his work. 

And gasped. 

He froze in his steps, his tune stuck in his throat. A transparent human shape stood at his workplace and ran its plasma fingers over the spot where he’d last worked the banister. His whistled tune floated in the air in the voice of a girl. The sound filled the entire space, pressing on his chest as if he were diving down into a lake. And then, suddenly, they were both gone. The song, as well as the human figure.

Al rubbed his eyes. Maybe I should have opened a window, he thought, fumes must be getting to me, or else I’m just tired. And indeed it was getting late and the sliver of a silver moon penetrated one of the stained glass windows above, casting a greenish glow onto the brook’s pool where Sarah had fallen. But Al had committed to finishing the banister and he wasn’t about to let a little tiredness come between him and his promise. 

  He took a swig from his can of Coors and continued his work on the banister. Maybe another thirty minutes or so, he reckoned, and it would be ready for paint. 

Pleased with the outcome, he stepped back to admire his work when a smile stole into his face. He climbed the steps, sat down on the banister and slid to the bottom, legs out, to finish his ride with a little jump off the end the way he’d done it when he was a kid. He thought he heard a girl’s laugh, clean and clear like the silver bell his grandmother used during holiday meals. Must be having wind chimes around here, he rationalized, then  stepped out into the windstill night.

During the next day, the painters went to work painting the banister, while the crew worked on the woodwork along the creek. It was slow going. The posts were set at irregular distances, and the fence had been anything but square or plumb. “Typical mountain carpentry,” the foreman grumbled, “gonna take twice as long as I thought.” At the end of the day, they were closer than they had anticipated in the morning, but they were definitely not able to stay on schedule. 

“I hate to ask you again, Al, but you think you could finish that one run today? I’ll pay you double time, or maybe you can have a day off in a couple of weeks if you’d rather,” the foreman addressed Al. 

“I can use the money,” Al replied. 

It seemed to get hotter at night than it had been during the day. Al kept the windows open and the crickets outside were even louder than the creek. He realized how much happier he was doing this restorative work rather than working at the mill. There was a feeling of contributing to the history of his community, and he pictured himself coming to the Lodge with a pretty girl and pointing out all the woodwork he had worked on.

The banister glistened in white high luster enamel and Al let his eyes wander up and down the staircase. Suddenly, the lights began to flicker and he cursed the no-good electrician who was supposed to have inspected the electrical and fixed any problems. He would be sure to tell his foreman about it tomorrow. For now, he unplugged the saw to avoid any damage to the motor in case there was a surge, sat down on a sawhorse, and opened a beer. 

Almost at once, the singing he’d heard yesterday seemed to emanate from the stairway leading up to the first balcony. “Well I’ll be..” he said out loud. “Brode, you jerk of a friend, come down here and join me for a beer!” Al called. 

No answer. 

The singing stopped. 

“Caught you and your stupid tricks!” Al laughed when suddenly the water in the creek churned and a massive splash hit Al smack in the face. 

“Hey, good thing I unplugged the saw!” Al yelled and added a few choice words in support of his statement. “What are you doing down in the creek anyways?” And he stepped closer to look down into the pool. 

It wasn’t his wet shirt that made his skin crawl. Down there, in the green-blue water floated a girl wearing a white lace dress. The big collar and her golden locks folded out around her head like a two layered halo, her round green eyes focused into nothingness. So perfect was her complexion, her lips so red, she looked alive. 

Yet Al knew she wasn’t. He turned and ran. Where to, he didn’t know, but it felt good to run, felt like if he just ran long enough and hard enough, he could change the immediate past, could outrun the present and end up in the future without ever having had this experience he was running from. He ran out of the lodge, across the highway, down toward the river and over the bridge, his steps sounding as loud as those of the horses that crossed the bridge around Sarah’s lifetime. He ran past the last house, through the yard that belonged to the house, fought his way through poison oak and ran while blackberry bushes slashed his face, his clothes, his arms and legs until they were bloody. He ran until he realized he stood at the edge of the canyon the San Lorenzo River had carved into the rock, and he was looking down a fifty foot cliff. 

His heart pounded, driving his blood into his brain so hard, his ears hurt from the rushing sound of it. For a moment he thought of what a deer would do if it had been chased this far. It would jump. No question about it.

And then, a wind chime sounds like silver bells, clean and sweet like the girl’s song, and Al startles. He jumps. 

Inadvertently.

 Too late to change his mind, the fall but takes two seconds. Two seconds to find his death. 

The girl, wet white lace dress, her golden curls still perfect, is lifted from the water and placed into the trunk of a car, then driven off to who-knows-where. The two young men laugh hysterically. 

“Man, for a minute there I thought he’d figured us out,” Brode admits.

“Did you see him run? Like the devil was after him!” the driver puts in. “Wait until he sees it on Youtube.”

“Hey, should we go look for him?” Brode fishes, half still amused, half feeling guilty.

“Nah, what for. He’ll figure it out. Remember, he said he doesn’t believe in ghosts.”