Winifred

“You’re blocking me.” The child-sized, wicker-backed chair had begun its slow, steady rock. Its ancient oak didn’t creak on the dusty plank floorboards. For a moment, no sounds, other than the little girl who pulled on my pants leg, existed.

 I said, “Oh, I’m sorry -- didn’t see you there.” Because I didn’t.

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 specter to appease.

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

Winifred.

Was I blocking her from seeing the many random onlookers who came to visit the prison of her afterlife? Her view from her corner into the rest of the room? Or was it our escort, who was sharing information about the building we visited?

The cicerone said she was a ghost. When I was younger, I used to see ghosts from time to time. Not so much now.

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? The doll rocking in the little oak chair sat tall for a toy.

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 grew from the head of the same youth who had passed.

How many of the dolls in Virginia City are memory dolls?

Winifred appeared to join us, rising from her place in the rocking chair, she stood by my side. No one noticed. Just me and my newfound friend.

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

Except for a few spots on her forehead where the porcelain peeled from her head like little scabs, her skin was flawless. Her right hand appeared to have been severed from her arm and reattached with a black strip of leather. With bright blue eyes and delicate lips like soft rose petals held closed in a contemplative pose, she was exquisite. Her ivory hair scarf was of fine satin and lace matching her elegant Victorian dress.

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

“Begging your pardon... It would please me to go past the next room without going inside.” She motioned toward the sizeable room our escort informed us was once a doctor’s office. That doctor treated many patients, especially children.

The cicerone told us to take a selfie in the diamond-speckled mirror in the corner of the immense room. “If you’re lucky, Gertrude will share the selfie with you.”

“Humph! She was a careless girl,” my companion said with disdain.

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

“See?”

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

“Where would you like to go now?"

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

No sooner had we entered the dimly lit space, than the escort brought his group into the room with us. Our guide explained the situation which 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. “He was the one who killed his wife and child.”

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

Two women from our bunch turned around and scowled at me with furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips. 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 glares from other members of the group silenced me.

Trailing the convoy, we entered the red room.

“I don’t like this room,” came a boy's voice.

His father took his hand, and they went into the hall. “Me neither.” The two listened to the 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 these walls,” 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 a ghost or a demon, I dawdled while the others filed into the hallway. “You’re not afraid of Tilman?”

She let out a chuckle. “Heavens, no. Who do you think put him here? -- Come on. You do not want to miss the next part of the tour.”

I followed her to a dank room. There was a sense of peace. The air was thick with perfume and decay. My nostrils flared. My breath hung before me in tiny droplets of ice.

BRR.

Outside, it was a balmy eighty degrees. Shadows danced on the floor.

A timber fence loosely guarded what appeared to be an unused decrepit stairwell. Peering over the edge, I viewed the stairs far below, worn and cracked. Some steps were half-missing; the landing was gone altogether. Slowly, I backed away.

Where’s Winifred?

I was pushed from behind. Propelled against an unseen force, I tried to halt my progress. I slid across dusty planks toward the gaping hole in the floor. Frantically, I waved my arms. I reached toward the wooden rail. Emptiness.

“Ahh!”

I fell into the void.

“It would please me for you to play with me.”