A Ghost's Story

A Ghost’s Story

November 1967

           It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. Fifteen-year-old Becky Chalmers hoped the weather would be better tomorrow. She and Uncle Beasley were going on an archive adventure at the Trenton Court House. Uncle Beasley, several cousins removed, pulled up to 26 Cadwallader Court clanging and clattering in his 1949 Crosley Hotshot.  They would be in search of a man named Moore Furman.

           Uncle Beasley was a favorite of Becky’s. An handsome young man—tall, slender, a wearer of spectacles. He never realized that his appearance attracted the admiration of many females. Uncle Beasley’s first love was tracking down the truth of the past.

           Becky shared Uncle Beasley’s love of history. She was part of the ‘in group’ at Charles Boehm Junior High. Unfortunately, it was getting dangerous to go without her granny glasses which slightly tipped her into the nerd group. Even so, Becky was a happy, average teen of the late sixties.

           “Do you have your white gloves Becky?” Uncle Beasley asked. “We’re going to handle some treasures. You’ll be wearing the gloves so none of the oil from your hands damages the documents and vice versa—so your hands don’t carry old leather and dust on them, which can be a torment if rubbed into one’s eyes.”

           “Tell me again, Uncle Beasley, who was Moore Furman?” Becky knew the man was a distant cousin of her great-grandfather, William Furman Crossley, and that he lived and died between 1728 and 1808.

           “He was Deputy Quartermaster General of New Jersey in the Revolutionary War. We’re going to investigate by reading some old, old letters and newspaper accounts about what he did during the war and then we’re going to think about what kind of man he was compared to everyone else of his time,” said Uncle Beasley.

           “You said we were going to start with a question. What is it?” Asked Becky.

           “I want to know if Moore Furman helped George Washington win the battle of Trenton which changed the course of the war and pointed the patriots to victory?” Uncle Beasley explained.  “And, I want to know if he tried to keep the soldiers of Washington’s army supplied at Valley Forge. We lost a lot of men in a cruel winter at Valley Forge. Our men were determined to win, and win we did.”

           “I think I’m going to like him Uncle Beasley,” Becky declared.

           “Let’s look at the facts first, Becky,” he said.

           The New Jersey State Archives were housed in a basement vault in the old Court House. Becky and her uncle were admitted to the cold, quiet guts of the archives. Uncle Beasley was intently pouring over what Becky found to be dusty, fragile, smelly papers. I’m bored, Becky thought. I wonder what else is in this place.

           “Uncle Beasley, I have to get some modern air,” she told her cohort.

           “That’s fine Becky. Take a walk outside the vault,” Uncle Beasley muttered, totally absorbed in his search.

           Becky opened a door. The wrong door. The lights were dim in the hallway. There was a bucket of dirty water and a mop leaning against the wall a few feet away. Behind her a door slammed, Becky jumped and turned to see who followed her.

           “How did a teenage hippy get in here?” An old woman in boots and an apron approached Becky.

           “I’m not a Hippie,” Becky asserted clothed in bell bottom jeans and her favorite tie-dye T-shirt.             

           “Ahhh,” the old woman said. As she came closer she tucked a beer can in the apron pocket. The smell of beer on the woman’s breath mixed with the dust in Becky’s nose. Becky sneezed loudly.

           Recovering, Becky said, “I’m here with my Uncle Beasley investigating Moore Furman.”

           “You are?” The old woman said. “I know where General Furman is.” A thick cackling laugh escaped from the woman. “Come with me, we’ll say hello to the old general. He was the Mayor of Trenton after the war, you know.”

           This is a hoax, Moore Furman died in 1808, Uncle Beasley told her that. However, Becky was curious. Could it be the ghost of Moore Furman? Becky lifted her chin and called on her memory. Gramma Crossley told Becky that there were no ghosts one Halloween night when she was a frightened little girl. I’m not afraid of a ghost, I’m fifteen, she told herself.

           Becky followed the old woman into a dimly lit room with an intimidating desk and some old chairs arranged haphazardly.

           “There, up on the wall behind the bench is General Furman,” the woman pointed a shaky finger.

           Becky said, “you mean the man in the painting is Moore Furman?”

           “Are ya blind, of course it’s him,” the old woman said.

           Becky looked from the portrait to the woman, “Who are you?” She asked.

           “I am Minnie Homeire, sole survivor of the Homeire family. I have a story too, want to hear it?”

           Intrigued, Becky replied, “Yes, I do.”

           Minnie Homeier sat on one of the rickety chairs. Becky sat too. The dust in Becky’s nose and the ancient uncirculated air made her head spin. Minnie began. Like Deja Vue the story Minnie told ascended into real time.

           “To begin, I’ve lived in Trenton many, many years. I had eight brothers and sisters. I was thirteen when my father had an accident. He was an engineer on Mr. Roebling’s bridge. Our Oma (grandmother) tried to take care of us all. She put me in charge of Lily who was only five-years-old, but they took Lily away when Oma died. They wouldn’t tell me where she was. They said it was better that way. I searched everywhere for Lily, everywhere. I only found her in my dreams. I’ll tell you what happened to Lily,” Minnie shifted in the old chair, then Minnie let the story tell itself.

           Lily remembered a night when Oma held her on her lap reading a story that would stay with her forever. It was called, “The Little Match Girl.” Oma and Lily cried at the end of the Hans Christian Anderson tale. Oma gently lifted Lily into her bed that night, covered her with a thick quilt, and brushed Lily’s hair away from her face with a kiss.   

           Lily was in tears. It was cold outside; the wind was blowing and icy snowflakes were stinging her face. She walked a long way today, so far that she didn’t know where she was. Nothing looked familiar.

           Lily had done some mean things, one after another. Her new brothers and her new big sister felt the wrath of Lily, who herself felt the wrath of her new daddy.

           “Why did you take Otto’s baseball cards and draw on them with charcoal? Why did you put snow down the back of Charlie’s winter coat? Why did you take Heidi’s Sunday School shoes? Why? Why? Why?”

           Lily didn’t know why. She was living with strangers. She had to share a bed with two other children.   She wanted to go home. 

           These people just eat oatmeal; all the time they eat oatmeal, Lily thought. “I’m tired of oatmeal,” She announced.

           The lady of the house hit her with a rolled-up newspaper.

           “Where is my oma?” She demanded.

           “Little girl you don’t belong to nobody. You should thank me for giving you food and a bed to sleep in,” said the ratchety old woman who was supposed to be her mother now.

           If I keep doing bad things, maybe they’ll send me to my Oma. They just hit her with a rolled-up newspaper again and shouted at her if a tear dropped. Lily ran. She knew she needed to find a warm place soon. Ice began to crust on her woolen coat. In spite of the cold, Lily took off her coat and tried to pull off the ice. She dropped the worn-thin coat. It was sucked up by the wheels of a garbage truck.

           My oma lives on the other side of the river. Maybe I can walk across the bridge and she’ll be home, Lily thought.

           Lily saw a sloppy, old, whiskered man following her. She walked faster but it was slippery. The only shoes she could find were her new big sister’s black patent leather Sunday School shoes. They made Lily’s flight sporadic. The old man was close—he smelled like her new daddy’s whiskey. She threw a handful of snow in his face. He was mad now.

           Lily ducked under a gate. He couldn’t follow her. She heard a string of words that good people didn’t say.

           Shivering now, Lily watched a warmly dressed gentleman and his female companion exit their car and climb the stoop of a brownstone house. Cheerful cries of welcome echoed from the warmth and shelter of what seemed like a palace to Lily.

           Maybe they left the door of their car open. If I can get in it will be dry and I can take a rest, Lily prayed. The door was heavy but mercifully unlocked. There was even a thick woolen blanket on the seat. It smelled like summer flowers. 

           “I guess this is the Lady’s blanket and she wears beautiful perfume,” Lily said aloud, as if that would make the blanket hers now.

           Huddled in the back seat, under the woolen blanket, Lily’s eyes closed. It was hours since she’d slept; hours since she’d eaten. Lily woke up to the clumping of tires and neck-wrenching stops and turns. 

           “Oh, where am I going?” She whispered, undiscovered. 

           The big, awkward car finally stopped. Doors banged shut. Lily waited and slipped out taking with her the thick woolen blanket. She looked in every direction. Still, nothing was familiar.

           Lily crumbled softly to her knees, praying, “Oh, holy Jesus, find me. Take me to my oma’s house. I don’t know where I am.”

           Some older boys were having a snowball fight. Their attention turned to Lily when a wayward snowball crashed beside her.

           “Where are you supposed to be?” Asked the leader.

           “I’m trying to get home to my oma,” Lily said.

           “I bet she don’t have a home,” a heavy, red-cheeked kid said. “Let’s take her blanket.”

           Lily fought but she was out-numbered and out-weighed. The blanket was gone. 

           She heard a dog whimpering in a deserted garage with no door. Shaking uncontrollably, cold and frightened, Lily lay next to the dog and the two gained some comfort from the little warmth of their two bodies.

           Morning came. The animal next to her gave no heat now. It was cold, lifeless. 

           Slices of orange light danced through the cracks of the old building. Lily heard someone sweeping snow with a broom.

           “Please, help me,” her words were faint. Soundless to any nearby human.

           Lily drew in her feet and legs. She hunched her back over them making a tiny ball of herself.

           “Jesus, I guess you will have to take me to your house,” Lily prayed again and closed her eyes, her lashes freezing together. As she struggled to breath, a hand touched Lily’s face.

           “Good Lord! It’s a child!” A woman shouted.

           Lily was wrapped in an overcoat, lifted with great care and taken into a warm kitchen.

           “We should call the authorities,” a male voice said.

           “No, we need to nurse her here, now,” a woman answered.

           Lily’s frozen clothes were removed. The black patent leather shoes fell off her blue feet. She was rubbed with warm hands, as if they could reach all the frozen parts of her.

           “The tub is filled with warm water now, let’s bathe her,” the woman said. Lily’s breath was less labored after lying in the tub. “Pick her up and let me dry her,” the woman was in charge.

           Dried, wrapped in a Turkish towel bathrobe and blankets, her feet in colorful knitted socks, Lily sighed.

           “I bet she’s not more than six-years-old,” a new voice said.

           “Try to drink this broth.” The voice put a warm mug in her tiny hands holding them on the mug with the voice’s larger hands. The kind people, two women and a man, did everything any compassionate human being could do.

           Lily’s mind drifted. “Oma, Oma,” she whispered. At the end of the cold, wintry day this little girl opened her large, brown eyes, once more said, “Oma,” and took the hand of her beloved Oma as they rose together to their heavenly home.

           “How could this happen?” The woman sobbed. “What kind of world is this?”

           “Darling, look at her. She’s at peace, no longer abandoned. It’s heartbreaking but some of us are not long in this world,” the male voice said.

           The authorities came, investigations were held. I would like to say that no other child passed this way. I can say that cast-offs like Lily are mourned for as long as their story is told and remembered, just like “The Little Match Girl.”  My hope is that maybe just one of these children will find mercy on earth in these troubled times.” Minnie’s voice broke, “Lilly was my little sister; my little lost sister. I cannot rest with these memories.”

           Just as she suddenly appeared; Minnie, her mop, and bucket were gone. 

           Becky felt abandoned in the empty hallway.

           “Becky, Becky, where did you go?” Uncle Beasley opened the door. He seized Becky who was slowly sinking to the floor, half carrying her to the archive reception hall. The fresh air flowed into Becky’s lungs reviving her.

           “Sometimes an investigation will take you to a place you shouldn’t be. The secret is getting away quickly and clearing your head,” Uncle Beasley sat down on an archive bench with Becky.

           “Moore Furman’s portrait was in there. I saw it, an old lady named Minnie showed it to me,” Becky was desperate to tell about her find.

           “Did the old lady wear boots and an apron?” Uncle Beasley asked.

           “Yes, did you see her?” Becky looked back at the archive’s door.

           “Becky, there is no Minnie Homeier. Her ghost is a legend here.” Uncle Beasley was acting solemn. “Let’s get some tea and biscuits.”

           “She told me a story about her sister, Lily Homeier,” Becky relayed Minnie’s story to her uncle.

           “I’m not sure the story is true, but I can see this is important to you,” he said. “We have a question to begin with, let’s investigate. The New Jersey State Library is where we’ll find the answer.”

           Becky recovered, ready to search for Lily. They did find the answer after plowing through the microfilmed Trenton Times newspapers.

           “So, it’s a true story,” Uncle Beasley was puzzled.

           “I guess an investigation, be it real or ghostly is the best way to find lost people, don’t you think so Uncle Beasley?” Becky said.

           Becky put her white gloves in her pocket remembering a date with her friend David several years ago when she unceremoniously threw her white gloves behind a bush. “There really is a good purpose for white gloves,” she whispered.         

           Uncle Beasley took Becky home to Yardley. She was moved deeply by Lily’s story, she slept restlessly. Becky was sweating. She dared not move. “I belong to Jesus Christ,” she whispered over and over again. Was it a witch, a werewolf or Minnie’s ghost that was under her bed? Grabbing her pillow Becky Chalmers escaped from her bed and half fell down the stairs. She burst into her parent’s bedroom. 

           Jackie Chalmers sat bolt upright; her satin hairnet that was supposed to save her hairdo fell off. Jim Chalmers ceased his rattling snoring.

           “Becky what’s wrong?” Her father asked.

           “I think there’s a ghost under my bed,” she whispered.

           “Oh Becky,” her mother chided, “you’re fifteen-years-old. You haven’t behaved like this since you were ten.”

           “I’ll go check under your bed Becky. Come with me,” Jim said. 

           “See—no ghost!” He put his flashlight back in his bathrobe pocket. “Tell me why you’re frightened?”

           Becky told her father about her trip to the archives with Uncle Beasley. She relayed Lily’s story and told him about the ghost of Minnie Homeier.

           “There’s no Minnie here. I’ll have a conversation with Beasley tomorrow,” he said.

           “No Daddy. I’ll go back to my bed,” Becky’s courage returned, but an hour later she woke and not waiting for a prayer to eliminate the specter, Becky flew down the stairs. Her parents were awakened a second time.

            Exhausted, Jim Chalmers took his pillow and announced, “I’ll go sleep with the ghost. Get in bed with your mother Becky Anne Chalmers.”

           “Thank you Daddy,” Becky said, relieved.

By Diane Campbell Green, altered from the manuscript “Becky’s Choice,” completed on March 9, 2023.

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