Remember the other day when I told you about a haint in my great grandparents’ old house? Not my only run-in with ghosts, friends.
Several years ago, Mister and I were in Ventura, California to see the one and only Merle Haggard. We knew the concert would end late, so we booked a room at the lovely Bella Maggiore Inn. We’d stayed there before and it had been grand. I was more than happy to be staying there again.
Anyhoo, after The Hag had finished his show, Mister and I walked back to the inn and called it a night. It was a warm evening, and our room had no conditioned air. There was a ceiling fan, however, so we cranked it and eventually fell asleep.
At some point in the night, I was awakened by a noise. (Sadly, I’m a light sleeper.) I lifted my head, strained to see around the room, and decided the noise must’ve been coming from the ceiling fan. I thought it was probably not quite level and was wobbling. Mister, a heavy sleeper, didn’t stir. I tried to go back to sleep.
But the noise grew louder. I began to understand it wasn’t coming from the ceiling fan. No, that noise was coming from the closet. The doors were rattling. In my stupor, the only rational explanation I could muster was that the ceiling fan must have been circulating the air in such a way as to jostle the closet’s folding doors. I mean, why else would the doors rattle? The noise continued for a while, then faded to silence. I fell asleep and that was that.
The next morning, as Mister and I were checking out, the girl at the front desk looked at our room key and said, “Oh! You were in our haunted room!”
B-what?
She gave us the full story… Back during WWII, the Bella Maggiore had been a brothel. Soldiers in the area often frequented the establishment and one soldier in particular used to regularly spend time with a working girl named Sylvia. At some point, Sylvia found herself in the family way and thought her soldier boy would stand by her in her time of need. But he didn’t want anything to do with the unborn child, and left Sylvia to fend for herself. Distraught and feeling as if she had no other choice, Sylvia hung herself – in the closet – of her room. The very room Mister and I had just vacated.
After the desk clerk finished telling us about Sylvia and how her ghost sometimes makes appearances at the inn, I said that perhaps I could have benefited from that knowledge before staying in the haunted room. I didn’t hold it against her, though, and we finished checking out and then headed back to L.A.
Ghosts happen. And I’m okay with that. But the next time I stay at the Bella Maggiore Inn, I may request a room other than number 17. I’m just sayin’.