GrowingOlderHopeWiser

It was the perfect setup for the Great-Aunts’ storytelling time.

It was a dark, late-August night when a loud knock at the door startled Elizabeth and the old aunts. It was Victoria, a mysterious, eccentric late-night visitor who always arrived uninvited. Her arrival was even more unusual that night because torrential rain pounded the front windows of the old New York apartment in the heart of Washington Heights. Who would be out in weather like this? Victoria was scarcely 5 feet tall, an elderly, hunched lady with pointy features, too much rouge, and metal-rimmed glasses. Always dressed to the nines, she wore a black pillbox hat and lavender cotton gloves, which she never removed. Tonight, she came in with a large black umbrella and a London fog raincoat too heavy for the summer weather.

The odors of water, mold, and old things made your nose itch, and you could taste the humidity. It had been a hot summer, and the evenings hung gravid with moisture. Summer rainstorms were common. To the left of the front door was Elizabeth’s small bedroom, and next to it, the only bathroom. From the front door, a long, narrow linoleum hallway opened into the main apartment, with the kitchen to the right, then the parlor, and finally the formal dining room. Another bedroom, Aunt Julia’s, was to the right of the parlor, and the final bedroom, Aunt Maria’s, was to the right of the dining room. Three front windows and a fire escape faced the street. Remnants of the old sconces from the antique gas lights still hung on the walls, and a creepy, obsolete dumbwaiter sat off to the side of the rather large kitchen. Long, dark shadows crept across the busy, flowered wallpaper of the antique-decorated dining room, reaching across its ornate chandelier and over the looming buffet filled with old wedding favors. A silver tray with fancy pink-and-white flowered cups and saucers was brought to the table, along with matching sugar and milk bowls. It was late evening, time for tea with the elderly Great-Aunts, Julia and Maria. Elizabeth, only 12, sat rigidly at the plastic-covered table, letting one restless leg break the formality. 

Victoria sat at the head of the table, a place reserved for the guest. She was also from the old country, Colombia, a miniaturist who once explained to Elizabeth how to cut glass with scissors after soaking it in hot water. Elizabeth, of course, tried it and almost cut off her fingers. Aunt Maria poured her a cup of floral-scented tea and offered sugar biscuits. Victoria knew it was time for stories, so after the usual updates, she sipped her tea and listened attentively to today’s ghostly offering.

Aunt Julia, a retired teacher, began, her voice low, eerie, and serious. She loved to tell ghost stories from the old country, Colombia, with drama and punctuation. Elizabeth’s ears perked up, and the hairs on her arms stood on end. She believed every bump in the night, every restless soul wandering, longing for the closure the stories described. The aunts exchanged a secret twinkle. 

“This really happened,” Aunt Julia began, her voice laced with mystery and intrigue. It was the early 1900s, and the Jurado family had moved into an old, weather-beaten Spanish colonial house near the heart of Bogotá, Colombia. When they first arrived at the historic house, the former owners’ Victorian furniture was draped in dusty white sheets. Even the spotted vintage mirrors were covered. A broken clock sat silent on the mantel in the living room, as if time had stopped the moment its heart stopped beating. The tessellated floor patterns were cracked and marbled in places. Heavy, faded, and frayed wine-colored curtains hung at the many once-beautiful, cracked windows. The late-afternoon light stretched across the drafty, unusually cold room in broken, irregular shards. The smell of mildew and old age hung in the dusty air. Aunt Julia’s father, Don Manuel Santiago, lit the gas lamps dotting the walls of the parlor. The light from the lamps crept across, revealing the apprehension on the family’s faces. The family consisted of the father, the mother, Andalesia; the older daughters, Maria Cleófe and Julia Francisca; the son, Santiago Jesus; and the baby, Rosa Inez. 

Victoria reached for another biscuit, sucking her lips like an old lady and peering over her spectacles. She had a way of deepening the unease already building in Elizabeth’s mind. She eyed Elizabeth from the corner of her seat. Aunt Julia’s story was getting creepy, and Victoria seemed creepier by the moment. 

Not long after the family settled in, strange occurrences began. The cupboards would be found open, the gaslights would flicker on and off, and the old, broken clock on the mantel would begin to bong late at night, startling the family. Pockets of very cold air would be felt, especially in the master bedroom. These were the usual signs of a haunting. Although the aunts were still children, they remembered quite vividly what happened next in that house.

Aunt Julia continued. At the time, their baby sister, Rosita, was still too young to crawl or walk. Yet she kept disappearing from her crib. They kept finding her, furiously crying, under their parents’ bed. This happened several times, and the family grew terrified. Being devout Catholics, they consulted the Monsignor of the Iglesia and confessed they were at their wits’ end. Monsignor Augustin knew some of the house’s history and the family who had lived there before. He said that Don Alphonso Betancourt and Doña Amalia de Aramás, along with their 5 children, had been the last family to live in that house. The house had been unoccupied since the tragedy.

Don Alphonso Betancourt was a very angry, miserly, and controlling man. He insisted that his wife cut the household expenses in half. He gave her a very tight allowance! Doña Amalia did not argue. If she did, she received a backhand. The children wore hand-me-down clothes, even though the family was wealthy by the standards of the time. They lived as if they were poor, or about to become poor. Such was his miserliness. His anger was even worse, always booming orders and enforcing them with corporal punishment. The children lay low, trying not to be noticed. Always hyper-vigilant, the whole family walked on eggshells around this man. 

Elizabeth looked at the plastic-covered furniture in the parlor, which she was not allowed to sit on. Nor did she want to! The plastic was hot and uncomfortable. The old aunts were frugal, too. Was this going to be another story with a moral about not being wasteful, or something like that? She remembered the time Aunt Julia said she would come back as a ghost, crumbling paper in the corners of the house, if she wasted notebook paper! She looked at her napkin, which Aunt Julia had insisted be cut in half. Was Aunt Julia miserly? She was a bit of a strange character at times; she would retire to her room and remain silent and isolated for days, sometimes weeks. Today was a good day for her; she joined in Tea Time.

The rain slowed to a gentle trickle, and the evening settled like a dropped blanket. Elizabeth still did not have the whole story. What had happened that was such a tragedy? And what did it have to do with the baby disappearing from the crib and being found under the bed? She wondered with great curiosity. 

“The Monsignor continued,” Aunt Julia said. Don Alphonso suddenly fell gravely ill and, tragically, died at the relatively young age of 58, leaving his family without a breadwinner, a will, or savings. Now truly destitute, they soon lost everything, including the house, to the Banco National. Doña Amalia had to leave it all behind. What finally broke her spirit was the loss of her youngest child, Beatrice. Amalia died of heartbreak and suicide, and her remaining children ended up in an orphanage. The Monsignor had assisted with the children’s placement through Catholic services.

Now it began to make sense to Elizabeth. The man’s anger and deep attachment to his wealth were devastating, and his control over his entire family, keeping them in constant fear, had to be sinful. The sort of thing that kept souls restless and with unfinished business. The tragic death of his wife sealed the pain into the very fabric of the house.

The Jurado family returned home from their visit with the Monsignor, and the baby was mysteriously moved under the bed again. This time, Don Manuel Santiago had had enough and decided to move the heavy four-poster bed with his wife’s help. The children watched as he uncovered loose wooden floorboards beneath the bed. He removed them, and to the family’s astonishment, a large, ornate box wrapped in heavy cotton cloth was revealed beneath the bedroom floorboards. The box was brought to the dining room table and carefully set for unveiling. Candlelight flickered restlessly across their faces, their eyes dark, worn circles from all the fear-filled nights they had endured. After a deep breath, the father opened the box. Inside were gold coins, jewels, and old money. A ledger with neatly written initials, dates, and amounts was also inside. The front cover read El Banco Nacional. Don Manuel Santiago imagined it belonged to Don Alphonso, the miserly patriarch of the Bentacourt family, who had hidden the family’s wealth.

Once again, the Jurado family visited the Monsignor to show him what they had discovered. Don Manuel Santiago said he wanted nothing to do with the treasure, believing it was cursed, and asked that it be blessed and donated to the church. The Monsignor agreed. The family returned to the house, and from then on, it remained quiet and undisturbed.

Tea time was over, and the mysterious artist bid her formal farewells before returning to the night. Elizabeth wondered why Victoria traveled only at night in New York City, when most elderly people feared nighttime visits. The old aunts dismissed her question, saying Victoria was a bohemian. Elizabeth ran to the front window to watch Victoria leave the building, but to her dismay, she never saw her depart. Like an uninvited spectral figure, Victoria disappeared as mysteriously as she had appeared.