Memoirist Idol
I Yelled at a Ghost
And got what I wanted
I was at the hotel just as an overnight guest. But when a ghost stole my key, I lambasted him.
Let’s back up.
In fifth grade, I went with my best friend, Patty, and her family on a one-week vacation to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. This adventure included staying at a hotel and visiting her grandpa in one of the UP’s largest cities, Escanaba. All I knew ahead of time was that this interestingly-named place sits on a sparkling Lake Michigan bay, the drive would take 6 hours, and we’d cross the Mackinac Bridge.
What I didn’t know was that our lodging would be no ordinary hotel. By the summer of 1961, the posh House of Ludington was close to its eightieth birthday. Over its lifetime, this “Lady of the Lakefront,” had attracted guests from all over the world, and hosted the likes of John Phillip Sousa, Prince Bertil of Sweden, Guy Lombardo, and Johnny Cash.
What’s more, Patty’s grandpa was no ordinary grandpa. He was Pat Hayes, owner of the hotel, its manager, chef, and a dynamo who — many attested — had single-handedly put Escanaba on the map.
This lucky visit was not just the highlight of my tenth summer. It was an unequalled pinnacle for the next several decades. Because, for one glorious week, Patty and I were empresses. Nabobs. Potentates.
Nothing, nothing, for a long time after, compared to occupying a suite, eating in a private dining room set with linen, china, and crystal, ordering whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted, getting a visit from Grandpa Pat in his chef’s regalia at dinner (who served unfamiliar but heavenly foods like shrimp cocktail, Shirley Temples, stuffed chops, and flaming baked Alaska) and having the run of the entire place. Literally.
Because all we did was run. The antiquated building housed a back stairway that served the staff, and a broad ornate staircase for the guests. Together, they made that perfect circle kids find indoors everywhere, for Chase and Tag. The manicured side yard, with its evergreens and shrubbery, provided an ideal place for Hide and Seek.
And right across the street was oceanic Lake Michigan, visible from the glass elevator we rode endlessly for no other reason than it was fun. The older residents loved us. Bemused parents and Grandpa Pat indulged us. I admit unequivocally that any pretentiousness I display in my life today began there.
I was always curious about returning to this fairy-tale hotel. But it didn’t happen until almost five decades later. I needed a place to stay on a solo February drive across the UP. And remembered.
Checking online, I was thrilled to find the hotel still existed and housed a good restaurant. To my surprise, it was also listed as one of Michigan’s haunted places. I didn’t remember anything unearthly from my fifth-grade stay. But according to online articles, unexplained phenomena happened frequently enough to attract both casual and serious ghost hunters. Many brought sensing equipment and cameras. Some had even posted blurry online photos.
I booked a reservation.
My winter dinner was enjoyable, and I conversed with the current owner, explaining my history with the hotel. When I asked about hauntings, he sighed, telling me the ghosts had been active lately, wreaking havoc with the plumbing.
“Ghosts plural?” I asked.
“We have quite a few, “ he smiled. “Did you think our only ghost was Pat Hayes?”
“Wait. Pat Hayes? My friend’s grandpa?”
“This was his baby. I think he wants to make sure we’re running it right.”
I felt surprised and intrigued. I didn’t know much about spectral happenings, and wouldn’t call myself a believer. So it had never occurred to me that a haunted site could contain a whole troupe of misbehaved souls — and that Grandpa Pat would be one of them.
The owner told me I’d be the only overnight guest, since it was off-season. But because I’d been there before, and knew the previous owner, I was welcome to roam the halls Patty and I had once raced through. Some rooms, in the midst of refurbishment, had doors ajar. He invited me to investigate.
Besides my room key, he gave me the key to the hotel’s front door, saying I’d need it for when I took my suitcases to the car in the morning. No one would be at the desk to let me back in. At check-out, I could just leave the both keys on the front desk and make sure the front door locked behind me. The family would be upstairs in their suite if I needed them, but they liked to sleep in.
I was on my own.
Mounting the stairs, I examined everything, from the polished handrail, to the carved faces on the crown molding, to the worn carpet, to the glass elevator, now out of order. I remembered it all, although the halls seemed narrower, and the side yard smaller. Along the half-lit corridor, I looked into the open rooms. Some were charming, finished except for curtains, or a bedspread. Others were in shambles, piled with debris from new sheetrock or window trim. I found the door to the staff stairway and descended, my creaky footfalls echoing in the deserted space. I wondered how customary it was to be the only overnight guest in a hundred-year-old hotel.
The ancient windows in my room admitted icy Lake Michigan drafts. The thumping pipes in the shower took a long time to deliver hot water. I just could not warm up, so I jumped into my flannel PJ’s and climbed under the quilts.
I read a bit and caught up on social media. When I returned from getting a drink of water before turning off the light, I did a double-take. Why was there only one key on the dresser?
Puzzled, I tried to remember if I’d actually set two keys on the dresser, or just thought I did. I hadn’t heard anything slide or fall. I scanned the floor, checked other surfaces, went through my purse and pockets. No key. I moved my suitcase and carry-on bag, then retraced my steps in the hall. Nada. I didn’t want to wake the owners, but wasn’t sure what to do.
And then I stopped short. Could it be…
After a moment of reflection, I gathered myself to full height, shook my fists and hollered, “Pat Hayes, I know you! You don’t scare me, and this is not funny. Give me back that damn key!” I hoped he could tell I was annoyed.
Not a creature stirred.
I shouted at Grandpa Pat once more, then began rummaging through the bedding. I shook out the towels in the bathroom — in short, I looked in all the places I knew the key was not. Still irked, I crawled around on the floor, checking under furniture. Just as I was about to give up, I spotted the key on the floor beneath the bed, in the exact middle.
I have no explanation for how it got there, or how it came to be so perfectly centered. I had to slide under the bed frame and stretch my arm out full-length to reach it.
Was Pat Hayes trifling with me? I wasn’t taking chances. “If you did this, don’t you dare try anything else!” I yelled at him, and every spirit within earshot.
I replaced the key on the dresser, double-checked to make sure I saw two, and turned off the light. There were no more disturbances.
The next morning, the hotel was dark and quiet. Before leaving the keys on the front desk, I took a last look and nodded a goodbye to any un-earthlings who dwelt there. But I also warned them that, if I returned and they messed with me again, they’d get a tirade they wouldn’t forget for eternity.
I loved Lisa Gerard Braun’s quick pacing in this emotional piece, as well as the surprise ending. You will, too.
Kris Heim is a baby-boomer with a past: teacher, gardener, writer, crafter, traveler. She recently downsized by half and is trying to organize the mess.
